m. 


Plays  of  To-day  and  To-morrow 

DON.     By  RUDOLF  BESIER. 

"  Mr.  Besier  is  a  man  who  can  see  and  think  for  himself,  and  con- 
struct as  setting  for  the  result  of  that  activity  a  form  of  his  own.  The 
construction  of  '  Don '  is  as  daring  as  it  is  original." — Mr.  Max  Beer- 
bohm  in  The  Saturday  Review. 

"  It  is  a  fresh  and  moving  story  .  .  .  and  full  of  good  things." — Mr. 
A.  B.  Walkley  in  The  Times. 

"'Don'  is  a  genuine  modern  comedy,  rich  in  observation  and 
courage,  and  will  add  to  the  author's  reputation  as  a  sincere  dramatist." 
—Mr.  E.  F.  Spence  in  The  Westminster  Gazette. 

THE   EARTH.     By  JAMES  B.  FAGAN. 

"A  magnificent  play— at  one  and  the  same  time  a  vital  and  fearless 
attack  on  political  fraud,  and  a  brilliantly-written  strong  human 
drama."  —The  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  '  The  Earth '  must  conquer  every  one  by  its  buoyant  irony,  its 
pungent  delineations,  and  not  least  by  its  rich  stores  of  simple  and 
wholesome  moral  feeling." — The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

LADY  PATRICIA.     By  RUDOLF  BESIER. 

"  One  of  the  most  delightful  productions  which  the  stage  has  shown 
us  in  recent  years.  Mr.  Besier's  work  would  '  read  '  deliciously  ;  it  is 
literary,  it  is  witty,  it  is  remarkable.  .  .  .  '  Lady  Patricia '  is  much  more 
than  merely  a  success  of  laughter.  It  is  also  a  success  of  literature. 
It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  convey  the  delicate  feeling  for 
words,  the  quaint,  satirical  quizzing  of  Mr.  Besier  of  the  jtrlcieuse,  the 
dabblers  in  sentiment,  the  poseurs  who  form  the  people  of  his  play." — 
The  Standard. 

THE    'WATERS   OF    BITTERNESS 

(A  Play  in  Three  Acts)  and  THE  CLODHOPPER 

(An  Incredible  Comedy).  By  S.  M.  Fox. 
"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  shall  hear  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Fox — 
supposing  that  Mr.  Fox  writes  other  plays  as  clever  as  '  The  Waters  of 
Bitterness,"  and  supposing  that  managers  think  the  public  clever 
enough  to  appreciate  them.  Anyhow  his  is  a  strong  and  bold  debut." 
— Mr.  Max  Beerbohm  in  The  Saturday  Review. 

THE    LOWER    DEPTHS.    By    MAXIM 
GORKY.    Translated  by  LAURENCE  IRVING. 

"  As  a  picture  of  character  and  life  it  is  profoundly  and  enthrallingly 
interesting."— The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Maxim  Gorky's  group  of  vivid  studies  of  the  submerged  tenth  of 
Russian  society,  which  he  presents  in  the  form  of  drama,  offers 
features  of  absorbing  interest  to  the  student  of  human  nature."— The 
Globe. 

TUR ANDOT,  PRINCESS  OF  CHINA. 

A    Chinoiserie   in    Three   Acts.    By  KARL 
VOLLMOELLER.    Translated  by  JETHRO  BITHELL. 


OF  TO-DiAT  *AND 


THIS    GENE?(ATI03{ 


THIS  GENERATION 

A    PLAY 


BY 

S.    £M.    FOX 

duthor  of  "  The  Waters  of  Bitterness"  etc. 


NEW   TORK:    DUF  FIELD  fcf   COM  PANT 
36-38   WEST  37/A   STREET 


First  Published  in  1913 


(All  rights  reserved.) 


TO 

H.   J.    R.   F. 
F.    M.    F. 

AND 

C.  S    F. 


2Q83135 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

GEORGE  TBEMAYNE        Of  Tremayne  &  Son,  Cigarette 

Manufacturers 

MB.  HABBUBN     Of  Harburn  &  Co.,  Financiers 

MB.  BAXTER,  L.C.C A  Journalist 

CHABLIE  DICKINSON       A  Sculptor 

TOM  GWOTKIN 
A  YOUNG  CLEBGYMAN 
A  COMMITTEE  MAN 
Two  WORKMEN 
LUCY  TBEMAYNE 

CLABA  HARBUBN  Lucy's  Sister 

MBS.  BAXTER 

LAURA  JEVANS     George's  Sister 

MATILDA 

HAROLD  AND  MILLIE      Tremayne's  Children 

Servants.     Workmen  and  their  Wives.     A  few  "  West  End 
People."    Performers,  etc. 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

TREMAYNE'S  HOUSE  IN  HOLLAND  PARK 
(Six  months  elapse) 

THE   SECOND  ACT 

TEEMAYNE'S  LITTLE  NEWSAGENT'S  SHOP,  NOTTING  HTT.L 
(Six  months  elapse) 

THE  THIBD  ACT 

A  WORKING  MAN'S  CLUB,  FULHAM 
(Three  months  elapse) 

THE  FOURTH  ACT 
MRS.  TREMAYNE'S  HOUSE,  SOUTH  KENSINGTON 


THE    FIRST    ACT 


THE    FIEST   ACT 

SCENE  : — The  comfortable,  smoking-room  of 
TREMAYNE'S  house  in  Holland  Park — taste- 
fully and  very  artistically  furnished.  The 
pictures  (Medici  Society  prints,  and  so  on) 
are  few  in  number.  The  fireplace  and  door 
are  on  the  right.  Two  windows  on  the  left. 
There  are  folding -doors  at  the  back  which 
are  thrown  open  as  the  curtain  rises  to  admit 
TREMAYNE,  BAXTER,  and  DICKINSON.  A 
dinner -table  spread  with  dessert  is  seen. 

GEORGE  TREMAYNE  is  a  good-looking  man 
about  thirty-five.  Ardent  and  enthusi- 
astic for  the  welfare  of  others,  he  has 
long  suffered  from  a  sense  of  the  incon- 
sistency of  his  position — for  he  is  at  the 
same  time  a  prosperous  manufacturer 
and  a  whole-hearted  Socialist.  He  is 
filled  with  pity  for  those  who  suffer. 
There  is  something  of  Tolstoi's  idealism 
in  his  nature.  And  his  views  grow 
more  uncompromising  and  unworldly  as 
the  need  of  a  new  life  for  all  men 
presses  upon  him. 


15 


16  THIS  GENERATION 

BAXTER  is  forty — sharp,  practical,  able.  He 
is  on  the  staff  of  a  Radical  newspaper, 
"  The  Daily  Phone,"  and  a  member  of 
the  L.C.C.  He  carefully  calls  himself 
a  Progressive,  in  preference  to  Socialist, 
because  he  holds  that  at  the  present 
moment  advanced  Radicalism  is  the 
more  practical  policy.  He  is  a  Fabian, 
and  believes  in  evolutionary  politics. 

DICKINSON  is  a  sculptor,  twenty -five,  and 
young  for  that.  He  has  a  certain  charm 
of  face  and  manner  which  is  very 
attractive.  Burning  with  fires  of  scorn 
at  the  hideous  mess  of  our  civilization, 
he  overflows  with  artistic  socialism. 
So  greedy  for  universal  health  and  joy 
and  beauty,  he  takes  no  thought  of 
means,  and  is  proud  to  be  called  un- 
practical and  flighty.  But  at  present 
he  is  too  light-hearted  to  wonder  if  he 
is  merely  "  beating  in  the  void  his 
luminous  wings  in  vain." 

GEORGE. 

Let's  come  in  here  !  The  wife  is  a  bit  old- 
fashioned.  She  doesn't  like  smoke  in  the  dining- 
room.  (He  closes  the  doors  and  hands  a 
silver  cigar -box.)  Have  a  cigar?  (BAXTER 
shakes  his  head.}  Oh,  I  remember— you  don't 
smoke  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  17 

BAXTER. 
Poison  ! 

DICKINSON. 

One  must  have  a  little  poison  in  life  to  keep  one 
sweet !  I'll  have  a  cigarette  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Handing  box.)  Don't  be  alarmed — they're  not 
ours  !  I'll  have  a  pipe.  (Picks  his  up  and 
begins  to  fill  it.)  Now  we're  all  suited — let's  sit 
down.  (He  and  BAXTER  drop  into  comfortable 
chairs.  DICKINSON  stands,  back  to  the  fire.) 

BAXTER. 

I  always  say  your  chairs  give  you  away,  George 
— they're  so  opulent  !  If  you  make  us  too  com- 
fortable, we  shall  stay  too  long. 

GEORGE. 

We  won't  keep  the  ladies  many  minutes.  The 
fact  is,  I  want  to  have  a  talk  to  you  two.  I've 
something  to  tell  you. 

BAXTER. 

Quite  like  the  opening  of  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray. 

DICKINSON. 

(Playfully.)  Don't  say  that  when  he's  got 
the  good  fortune  to  have  the  first  still.  (To 
TREMAYNE.)  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  .  ! 

2 


18  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

Well  !  it's  like  in  a  way.  For  I've  asked  you 
here  to-night  to  break  a  piece  of  news  to  you 
both  (a  maidservant  enters  and  hands  the  coffee} 
— in  a  minute. 

BAXTER. 

I  hope  it's  good  news. 

GEORGE. 
The   best ! 

BAXTER. 

Then  you're  not  going  to  join  the  Syndicalist 
lot? 

GEORGE . 

No.  I  don't  hold  with  revolutionary  methods. 
I  believe  in  brotherly  kindness — and  graduated 
taxation 


BAXTER. 

You're  right  !  More  scientific — and  far  more 
effective  !  You  can  worm  in  a  screw  where  you 
can't  drive  a  nail. 

DICKINSON. 

(Who  has  been  wandering  round  and  is  now 
looking  at  a  statuette.}  I  wish  you'd  got  a  Rodin, 
George.  If  you  will  stink  of  money  you  couldn't 
spend  it  better.  Get  one  of  those  small  marble 
groups — you  know  !  Two  figures  flowing  together 
like  the  ripples  of  the  tide.  (He  takes  his  coffee.) 


THIS   GENERATION  19 

GEORGE. 

I'm  not  sure  what  my  wife  would  say. 

DICKINSON. 
Educate  her  ! 

GEORGE. 

My  dear  Dickey  !  If  you  were  married  you'd 
know  that  was  easier  said  than  done. 

(The  maid  departs.) 

BAXTER. 
Now  for  it. 

GEORGE. 

(Bursting  out.)  I  can't  afford  Rodins  !  I  can't 
afford  anything  !  I've  burnt  my  boats  !  I've 
given  up  business  !  I'm  almost  a  pauper  ! 

DICKINSON. 
Splendid  ! 

BAXTER. 

So  you're  really  going  to  face  the  music  and 
chuck  the  Golden  Calf.  I've  done  you  an  in- 
justice, George.  I  always  thought  you  were  one 
of  those  chaps  who  say  "  Capital  must  be  fought 
by  Capital."  They  mean  their  own,  of  course, 
and  the  bigger  the  weapon  the  better.  They  make 
the  excuse  that  we're  in  a  transitional  period. 


20  THIS  GENERATION 

I  don't  say  they're  conscious  hypocrites,  but 
they're  utterly  inconsistent.  They  damn  the 
cause. 

GEORGE. 

We're  all  inconsistent — more  or  less.  I'm 
giving  up  business  on  consicentious  grounds,  but 
I'm  keeping  back  a  hundred  a  year. 

DICKINSON. 

I  should  make  it  two,  old  chap,  while  I  had  the 
chance.  In  this  transitional  period,  you  know, 
one  really  does  need  two. 

GEORGE. 

It's  mostly  on  Lucy's  account. 

DICKINSON. 

Then   I   should    make   it   four ! 

GEORGE. 

I'm  afraid  she  won't  like  the  change. 

BAXTER. 

Of  course  she  won't.  No  woman  likes  poverty 
unless  she's  one  of  us.  Even  then  it's  difficult 
to  get  her  to  swallow  it  voluntarily — without  a 
grimace.  (Ironically.)  They've  got  such  a  lot 
of  common  sense. 

GEORGE. 

(Warmly.)     Lucy's  awfully  unselfish  and  loyal 


THIS   GENERATION  21 

to  me.  I  shall  talk  her  round.  She'll  back  me 
up.  But  I  haven't  told  her  yet.  So  please  don't 
breathe  a  word  of  this  to-night. 

BAXTER. 

No,  no  ! 

DICKINSON. 

Of   course  not ! 

DICKINSON. 

(Throwing  himself  into  a  chair.)  What  con- 
verted you? 

GEORGE. 

(Hotly.)  The  horrible  deceit  of  it  all!  You 
must  trick  and  lie — it's  the  custom  of  the  trade  ! 
You  must  lie  and  trick  and  undersell — it's  legiti- 
mate competition.  Here  am  I,  not  only  a 
capitalist  preaching  Socialism,  but  a  man  grow- 
ing rich  by  undermining  the  health  of  the  rising 
generation.  Our  cigarettes  are  dirt  cheap — mostly 
paper.  They're  the  favourite  smoke  for  boys  ; 
and  in  spite  of  the  Act,  we  sell  more  than  ever. 
We  force  them  on  the  public.  We  must  force 
them  on  the  public  with  horrid,  lying,  full-page 
advertisements  in  the  daily  papers.  You  know 
them  !  Well,  that's  business — the  quick -to -be -rich 
soul  of  modern  business.  I've  struggled  against 
my  conscience  for  months — for  years — and  I  can't 
make  my  life  a  living  lie  any  longer. 


22  THIS   GENERATION 

BAXTEE. 

What  do  your  partners  say? 

GEORGE. 

Delighted  !  They'll  have  my  share  in  future. 
I  was  a  bit  o,f  a  check  on  them.  They  regarded 
me  as  an  obstructive — a  crank.  And  now  they'll 
be  able  to  run  the  concern  on  purely  up-to-date 
lines.  The  tobacco'll  be  worse,  the  paper'll  be 
worse,  the  wages  worse  than  ever.  If  they  can 
spend  still  less  on  the  stuff  and  more  on  the 
"  ads."  they'll  double  their  income. 

DICKINSON. 

Fresh   "tips,"   I  suppose? 

GEORGE . 

Don't  mention  the  word — I  invented  it !  Fancy 
a  man  making  a  fortune  out  of  a  monosyllable 
and  nobody — not  even  his  own  employees — one 
penny  the  better.  One  night  I  happened  to  think 
of  it.  Next  morning  I  went  down  to  the  office 
and  said,  "Why  not  nick -name  our  stuff?" 
So  we  started  our  Turf  Tips  and  Stock  Exchange 
Tips  and  Blue  Jacket  Tips  and  Tommy  Tips. 
The  idea  caught  on.  Our  business  went  up  by 
leaps  and  bounds.  You've  seen  our  posters? 

DICKINSON. 

Can't  escape  'em.  But  why  don't  you  make 
'em  more  artistic?  A  really  artistic  poster 


THIS  GENERATION  23 

BAXTER. 

(Interrupting.)  All  posters  are  a  mark  of 
the  beast.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  next? 
Not  take  to  cocoa,  I  hope,  as  a  compromise  ! 

GEORGE. 

That  would  be  nearly  as  bad  from  my  point 
of  view. 

BAXTER. 

Most  men  when  they  make  "  the  great  refusal  " 
begin  with  carpentering — and  do  it  damned  badly. 

GEORGE. 

No,  I  shan't  be  a  carpenter.  I'm  going  to 
make  picture -frames — artistic  frames  with  gesso. 
I  can  make  them  quite  decently.  I  thought  of 
keeping  a  little  newspaper  shop  as  well.  It'll 
give  a  chance  of  pushing  our  literature. 

DICKINSON. 

(With  encouraging  cheerfulness.)  Duty — self- 
sacrifice — the  simple  life  !  Now  you'll  know  what 
it  is  to  be  happy. 

GEORGE. 

(Getting  up  and  walking  about  restlessly.)  I — 
I — hope  so.  But  there  are  awful  difficulties  to 
face.  For  instance,  there  are  the  children. 

BAXTER. 

We  must  think  of  the  forces  of  the  future — 
"  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 


24  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

Yes,  of  course.  But  if  you're  an  out-and-out 
Socialist,  children  are  a  complication. 

DICKINSON. 

I  suppose  that's  why  most  of  us  have  so  few 
or  none? 

BAXTER. 

Don't  talk  like  that  !  If  we're  going  to  capture 
the  world,  we  must  multiply  as  fast  as  possible. 
Don't  they  say  "  the  more  the  merrier  "? 

DICKINSON. 

The  women  don't  say  so  nowadays. 

BAXTER. 

Unfortunately  !  One  constantly  hears  "  There's 
no  place  for  the  child  in  modern  life." 

GEORGE. 

If  that  were  true  it  condemns  modern  life — it 
damns  it  utterly  ! 

DICKINSON. 

You  can't  expect  to  have  every ching,  old  chap  ! 

GEORGE. 

As  far  as  we're  concerned,  there  are  practical 
difficulties.  Schools  !  I  can't  conscientiously  send 
Harold  to  a  public  school — besides,  I  couldn't 


THIS   GENERATION  25 

afford  it  if  I  wished  to.  The  children  belong  to 
the  people — they  are  the  people.  They'll  have 
to  go  to  a  Provided  School. 

DICKINSON. 

Of  course — why  not?  I  began  in  a  Board 
School. 

GEORGE. 

Still,  there  are  things  one  can't  help  shrink- 
ing from — accents,  infections,  acquaintanceships. 
Their  mother  will  be  horrified — naturally  ! 

DICKINSON. 

Why,  you're  the  very  man  who  preaches  about 
Walt  Whitman  and  human  fellowship,  and 
"  nobody  being  common  or  unclean." 

GEORGE. 

(Grimly.}  When  I  rashly  said  "  nobody  was 
common  or  unclean,"  I  ought  to  have  made  an 
exception  in  favour  of  certain  children. 

BAXTER. 

Do  your  kids  all  the  good  in  the  world  !  None 
of  that  pestilential  nonsense  about  "  public  school 
tone."  A  Provided  School  will  make  'em  see  life 
seriously.  If  it  makes  'em  dissatisfied,  so  much 
the  better. 

GEORGE. 

Poor    dears  !      You    haven't    got    any    children, 


26  THIS  GENERATION 

Baxter.      After    all's    said    and    done,   it's   rather 
a  wrench  to  break  with  one's  class. 

BAXTER. 

Class  !  You  don't  usually  talk  to  us  about 
class. 

GEORGE  . 

No.  But  to-night  I'm  a  bit  upset,  I  suppose. 
Don't  forget  I'm  taking  a  plunge  and  dragging 
the  family  down  with  me. 

BAXTER. 

I  admire  your  courage.  It's  magnificent — but 
it  isn't  Fabian. 

DICKINSON. 

(Patting  TREMAYNE  encouragingly  on  the 
shoulder.)  You're  awfully  plucky,  old  man  ! 

BAXTER. 

(Heartily.)  You  are,  indeed.  Don't  think  I'm 
criticizing,  please.  I  want  to  encourage  you. 

GEORGE. 

We  mustn't  forget  the  ladies.  If  they  don't 
mind  smoking  they  might  join  us  here.  It's 
snugger  when  we're  a  small  party. 

(They  all  rise.     He  goes.) 

BAXTER. 

It's  a  fine  thing  to  do.     He's  giving  up  two  or 


THIS   GENERATION  27 

three   thousand  a  year.     I  like  a  man  who   acts 
as   well   as   talks.      They're  rare   enough  ! 

DICKINSON. 

The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  appeals  to  him.  I 
believe  he  would  really  like  to  follow  its  teaching. 
There'll  be  ructions  with  his  good  lady.  She 
reads  the  Sermon — he  strives  to  live  it. 

BAXTEE. 

Yes,  she's  parasitic — the  tender,  clinging, 
domestic  sort,  wrapped  up  in  her  home  and 
family,  though  when  it  comes  to  what  she  calls 
"  right  and  wrong,"  she  can  be  as  obstinate  as  a 
mule. 

DICKINSON. 

I  know  them — chimney  ornaments.  One  com- 
fort, there  won't  be  any  room  left  very  soon  for 
these  "  dainty  rogues  in  porcelain." 

BAXTER. 

By  the  way,  I  saw  Jevans  this  morning.  His 
wife's  gone  off  with  young  Learmouth. 

DICKINSON. 

You  don't  say  so  !     Was  he  much  cut  up  ? 

BAXTER. 

He's  a  sensible  modern  chap,  with  lenient  ideas, 
and  makes  the  best  of  it.  I  think  he  may  have 
arranged  it,  or  at  least  acquiesced. 


28  THIS   GENERATION 

DICKINSON. 

Isn't  she  George's  sister?     What'll  he  say? 

BAXTER. 

He'll  hate  it.  That  sort  of  thing  may  he  right 
in  theory.  We  want  to  loosen  the  marriage  tie 
and  do  away  with  too  much  subsequent  stigma. 
But  still,  when  it  comes  to  your  sister — well,  she 
is  your  sister . 

DICKINSON. 

If  I  were  a  woman  I  know  I  couldn't  stand  the 
same  man  for  long.  Lots  of  'em  are  getting  to 
feel  that  nowadays. 

BAXTER. 

Oh,  you're  an  artist  with  temperament — and 
tantrums  ! 

(GEORGE  returns  with  the  ladies.  LUCY 
TREMAYNE  is  a  sweet -faced  woman  of 
about  thirty,  under  whose  gentle  and 
appealing  manner  may  be  detected  a 
touch  of  firmness.  Her  ideas  have  been 
stereotyped,  her  mind  made  up.  She 
is  difficult  to  persuade,  impossible  to 
convince — above  all  things,  "  a  womanly 
woman"  with  the  quiet  atmosphere 
which  comes  from  the  old  habits  and 
traditional  thoughts  of  other  days.) 

(CLARA  HARBURN  is  a  bright,  pretty, 
fashionably  gowned  young  woman,  whose 


THIS  GENERATION  29 

days  are  fully  occupied  with  devoting 
her  life  to  its  own  amusement.) 

(MRS.  BAXTER  is  a  large,  handsome  woman 
of  about  thirty -five,  aesthetically 
dressed,  but  with  quiet  good  taste.  She 
wears  sandals  instead  of  shoes.  Her 
profession  is  making  enamels.  Her  life 
is  devoted  to  that,  the  Woman's  Cause, 
and  Social  Reform.  She  is  difficult  to 
contradict,  impossible  to  disconcert. 
Though  very  calm  in  manner,  she  speaks 
with  extreme  decision.) 

LUCY. 

George   has    brought   us    down.      We   generally 

sit  here  when  we're  alone.     He  likes  to  smoke. 

BAXTER. 

My  wife  smokes  instead  of  me.  She  has  the 
nerves  of  the  modern  woman — nothing  affects 
them. 

GEORGE. 

(Handing  cigarettes.)     Then  have  a  cigarette. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

(Taking  one.)  Thanks. 

CLARA. 

(Taking  one).  Thanks,  awfully.  How  I  envy 
the  girls  who  work  in  the  factory.  It  must  be 
such  fun  rolling  up  the  tobacco. 

(The  party  gradually  settles  into  chairs.) 


30  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

It's  done  by  machinery.  The  girls  only  pack 
the  boxes.  The  work's  frightfully  monotonous. 

LUCY. 

But  still,  they're  earning  their  living.  It's  not 
unhealthy. 

GEORGE. 

They're  dreadfully  underpaid. 

CLARA. 

I'm  ashamed  of  you,  George,  with  all  your 
give-away  views  !  Why  don't  you  pay  them 
better  ? 

GEORGE. 

(Sarcastically.)  Business  is  business.  Why 
should  we  pay  'em  more  than  they're  worth? 
(To  the  others.)  I  speak  as  "  a  master." 

CLARA. 

Can't  they  strike?     I  should  strike. 

GEORGE. 

They  can't — wretched  slaves  !  They're  not 
organized. 

LUCY. 

(Sighing.)  Poor  souls!  (To  MRS.  BAXTER.) 
I've  got  a  girls'  club  at  the  works.  I  do  what  I 
can.  But  I'm  distressed  about  the  mothers. 


THIS   GENERATION  31 

MRS.  BAXTEK. 

(Decisively.)  All  mothers  must  be  kept  by  the 
State,  and  their  children  fed  and  looked  after. 
There  aren't  two  opinions  on  that. 

LUCY. 

I  assure  you  there  are.  The  idea  almost  shocks 
me.  It's  robbing  a  woman  of  half  the  bliss  of 
motherhood  and  all  the  comfort  of  home.  I  can't 
help  feeling  it's  rather  hard  on  any  woman 
to  have  to  work — except  in  domestic  service,  and 
so  on. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

(Still  more  decisively.)  Every  woman  should 
have  an  occupation.  It's  the  secret  of  happiness. 
I  live  for  nothing  except  the  Women's  Cause  and 
my  enamels.  Our  taking  up  work  is  the  only  way 
by  which  we  can  become  economically  independent. 

LUCY. 

But  why  should  we  want  to  be? 

CLARA. 

Why?  We  don't!  We  want  to  be  extrava- 
gantly independent.  (Turning  on  MRS.  BAXTER 
playfully.)  When  you've  abolished  all  the  rich 
people,  who's  going  to  buy  your  work? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

(Without  a  smile.)    The  State. 


32  THIS   GENERATION 

CLARA. 

Will  it  pay  for  it? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

Yes.      In   credit  notes   possibly. 

CLARA. 

I  should  prefer  hard  cash.  (To  DICKINSON.) 
Will  the  State  be  clamouring  for  your  sculpture? 

DICKINSON. 

If  it's  good  enough.  In  every  town  there'll 
be  beautiful  avenues  of  ideal  statues  leading  up 
to  the  free  institutions — theatres,  colleges,  that 
sort  of  thing. 

CLARA. 

(Turning  playfully  to  MRS.  BAXTER.)  And 
our  hats?  Will  the  State  dare  provide  them? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

It  may  come  to  that  some  day — when  its 
organization  is  perfect. 

CLARA. 

Ready  trimmed? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

I  imagine  so.  But  that's  quite  a  matter  of 
detail . 

CLARA. 

A  matter  of  detail  !  I  didn't  know  your  horrid 
State  could  be  quite  as  horrid  as  that.  I  shall 


THIS   GENERATION  33 

be  a  passive  resister.  We  shall  have  to  exter- 
minate Socialists,  I  can  see,  as  enemies  to  the 
human  race.  Father's  awfully  down  on  them. 
He  says  they're  already  driving  capital  out  of 
the  country.  People  are  growing  nervous.  West 
End  trade's  getting  so  bad  that  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  Americans  half  of  the  best  shops  would  be 
bankrupt. 

DICKINSON. 

We  hope   all   of  them  will  be   bankrupt   soon  ! 

LUCY. 

(Naturally  shocked.}  Please  don't  talk  like 
that.  It's  not  right.  I  know  you  don't  mean  it. 

DICKINSON. 

(Walking  across  for  another  cigarette.  He 
turns  to  CLAKA.)  You  say  we're  trying  to  spoil 
all  your  fun — you're  quite  wrong.  (With  light 
enthusiasm.)  We  want  to  give  you  more  health 
and  beauty  and  happiness — much,  much  more. 
Only  we  don't  mean  merely  to  give  it  to  you 
and  yours,  but  to  every  one.  Look  at  the  poor, 
miserable,  undersized,  weak-minded  wretches  we 
breed  nowadays.  That's  due  to  our  industrial 
system.  We're  going  to  stop  it.  We're  going 
to  teach  men  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  human 
body.  Have  you  ever  strolled  through  the 
Tuileries  Gardens?  The  sculpture  there  is  a  joy 
and  a  tonic.  It  opens  one's  eyes  to  what  we 
may  do  in  the  future. 

3 


34  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

(With  a  touch  of  chill  disapproval.)  I  hope 
we  may  never  have  anything  quite  so  French  in 
London. 

MRS.  BAXTEE. 

Clothes  are  a  worn-out  survival.  We  ought 
to  be  able  to  discard  them  whenever  we  choose. 

CLARA. 

We  do  !  We  do  now — whenever  we  can  afford 
to  buy  new  ones  ! 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

Hats  and  gloves  and  shoes  and  stockings  are 
going  fast.  I'm  glad  to  say  women  are  losing 
their  morbid  sense  of  shame. 

DICKINSON. 

While  the  men  seem  catching  it. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

All  those  artistic  dancers  are  educating  the 
public. 

DICKINSON. 

Of  course.  They're  the  best  of  missionaries. 
They're  letting  it  down  by  degrees. 

BAXTER. 
The  dress? 


THIS   GENERATION  35 

DICKINSON. 

No,  the  public. 

CLARA. 

(With  mock  horror.)  But  do  you  really  mean 
we're  to  have  no  new  clothes — no  fresh  gowns  or 
anything  ? 

DICKINSON. 

Not  at  all.  One  must  use  common  sense.  I 
don't  want  unclad  people  walking  about  the  streets, 
of  course.  But  we're  going  to  have  plenty  of 
health  places  where  we  can  get  fit  by  wearing 
nothing.  Like  all  those  Freiluftgymnasien  in 
Copenhagen.  Air,  sun,  health,  physical  culture, 
nudity  !  That's  my  receipt  for  most  of  the  ills 
we  suffer  from. 

LUCY. 

(Puzzled  and  vaguely  scandalized.)  We  live 
in  strange  times.  You  never  know  what  people 
may  not  be  proposing  next. 

GEORGE. 

You're  right  there,  Lucy.  Always  keep  pre- 
pared for  anything,  and  you'll  never  be  shocked. 

LUCY. 

I   hope   I    shan't   have   cause. 

DICKINSON. 

We'll  convert  you.     Won't  we,  George? 


36  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE . 

We'll  do  our  best. 

BAXTER. 

(Rising.)  Pray  excuse  me.  I'm  due  at  the 
newspaper  office.  (Every  one  rises.)  (To  Lucy.) 
Good -night.  (To  his  wife.)  Good -night. 

(He  shakes  hands  all  round,   and  goes  out 
accompanied  by  GEORGE.) 

LUCY. 

I  suppose  your  husband  won't  be  back  till 
very  late? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

I  suppose  not.     I  never  see  him  till  breakfast. 

LUCY. 

I  shouldn't  like  that.  I  can't  bear  sleeping 
alone. 

CLARA 

She's   frightened. 

LUCY. 

No,  I'm  not  ;  but  I  don't  like  being  alone — it's 
so  lonely. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

Sharing  a  bed  or  a  bedroom  is  quite  old- 
fashioned.  It's  unhygienic. 


THIS   GENERATION  37 

LUCY. 

I  am  quite  old-fashioned. 

(The  servant  enters  with  a  tray,  on  which 
are  whisky,  soda,  and  a  jug  of  hot 
water.) 

LUCY. 

Have  something  to  drink? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

Thanks  !      I    should    like   some   hot   water. 

LUCY. 

(Pouring  it  out,  but  speaking  to  DICKINSON.) 

And  you  ? 

DICKINSON. 

I'll  help  myself  if  I  may. 

LUCY. 

Please  do. 

(He  takes  a  whisky  and  soda.) 

DICKINSON. 

My  one  fear  is,  the  new  State  may  decree 
prohibition . 

(GEORGE   returns . ) 

GEORGE. 

I  met  rather  an  interesting  youth  at  the 
Working  Men's  Club  last  night.  His  name's 
Gwotkin — nineteen,  clever,  delicate — I  should  say 


38  THIS   GENERATION 

consumptive.  He's  awfully  keen  on  our  work — 
wants  to  write.  I  meant  to  speak  to  your  hus- 
band about  him. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

I'll  mention  him  to  Herbert,  but  there  isn't 
much  chance.  I  know  these  youths.  They  need 
training  before  they're  any  use.  A  heart  gush- 
ing over  with  love  for  the  poor  and  bile  for  the 
rich  doesn't  in  itself  make  a  journalist. 

CLARA. 

Though  it  may   make   a   Cabinet  Minister. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

It's  possible.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Cabinet  Ministers. 

DICKINSON. 

Rather  not  !  They're  the  touts  and  cheap - 
jacks  outside  the  show,  put  up  to  blow  the  trum- 
pet and  do  the  patter — that's  what  they're  paid 
for.  Both  parties  are  equally  time-serving  and 
contemptible. 

GEORGE. 

As  long  as  they're  financed  by  capitalists,  they 
must  be. 

LUCY. 

(Feeling  the  ground  all  the  time  slipping  from 
under  her  feet.)  But  we  must  have  a  Government, 
George. 


THIS   GENERATION  39 

DICKINSON. 

Do  you  know  whom  we're  governed  by  now  ? 
A  gang  of  crimps  called  the  Party  Wire-pullers. 
They've  got  the  cash,  and  they  run  the  show. 

CLARA. 

Then  all  the  Reform  Bills  have  been  a  mistake, 
after  all.  (To  LUCY.)  You  know  uncle  always 
said  so. 

(The  company  are  too  -flabbergasted  to  speak.) 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

(Rising  to  end  such  folly.)  I  must  be  going — 
it's  getting  late. 

DICKINSON. 

I  take  your  tube,  so  I'll  join  you. 

(They  both  say  good-night  to  the  ladies,  and 
go  out  accompanied  by  GEORGE.) 

CLARA. 

(Calling  after  him.)  A  taxi,  please,  George. 
(To  her  sister.)  My  dear,  they're  too  killing  for 
words  !  What  a  set  !  Did  you  hear  what  she 
said  about  hats?  And  she  wasn't  joking! 

LUCY. 
Yes. 

CLARA. 

And  what  they  said  about  clothes?  Do  you 
really  think  they're  quite  sane? 


40  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

I'm  afraid  so,  dear.  I'm  very  depressed  about 
the  future . 

CLAEA. 

Oh,  nonsense  !  They  can't  do  much  harm.  It's 
only  their  queer  conceit  and  oddity.  All  women 
at  least  are  conservatives  at  heart.  That's  why 
we  must  get  the  vote  somehow. 

LUCY. 

I  used  to  think  so,  but  now  I'm  not  sure. 
Women  seem  changing  like  everything  else. 

CLARA. 

The  best  of  George  is,  his  talk's  all  talk.  One 
knows  he  means  nothing  by  it. 

LUCY. 

(Warmly.}  He  means  everything  he  says.  He 
is  filled  with  pity  for  all  the  wrong  and  suffer- 
ing round  us.  He'd  do  anything  if  he  could 
put  a  stop  to  it. 

CLARA. 

So  should  we  all,  dear.  But  one  can't  do  much 
except  subscribe  to  charities.  And  they  say  they 
generally  do  more  harm  than  good. 

LUCY. 

Besides,  even  George  is  changing.  I  don't  quite 
know  what  he  wants,  but  he's  restless  and  dis- 
contented. There's  something  horrid  coming  that 


THIS   GENERATION  41 

I  shall  hate.  I  feel  such  a  worm  because  I'm 
quite  happy  just  as  I  am.  I  suppose  I'm  old- 
fashioned.  I  don't  like  change. 

CLARA. 

Have  you  noticed  that  the  men  with  super - 
noble  natures  hardly  ever  get  on  with  their  wives? 

LUCY. 

Perhaps  they   marry   the  wrong  women. 

CLARA. 

(Emphatically.}  Yes,  dear.  And  don't  they 
jolly  well  let  'em  know  it  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Entering.)    The  taxi. 

CLARA. 

Kissing  her  sister.)  Good -night,  dear. 
Thanks  for  a  very  amusing  evening.  (To 
GEORGE.)  Your  set's  getting  queerer  than  ever. 
I  didn't  know  such  people  existed.  I  shall  have 
plenty  to  entertain  my  partners  with  at  the  dance 
on  Tuesday. 

LUCY. 

(Kissing  her.)  Good -night,  dear.  Love  to 
father . 

(GEORGE  goes  out  with  CLARA.) 
(LUCY  tidies  back  the  chairs,  and  then  picks 

up  the  "Spectator") 

(GEORGE     returns,     and     looks     over     her 
shoulder.) 


42  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

(After  a  moment.)     Do  you  like  the  Spectator? 

LUCY. 

Yes  ;  it's  so  satisfactory  and  sustaining.  I 
wish  you  read  it,  dear. 

GEORGE. 

(Very  gently.)  Please  don't  read  any  more 
just  now.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

(He  takes  it  away  from  her  quietly,  and 
folding  it,  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  while  he  continues.) 

GEORGE. 

You  know  what  I've  always  felt  about  our 
business.  It's  not  as  though  it  were  merely  one 
of  those  businesses  which  are  non-productive 

LUCY. 

But  it  is   productive.      It   produces   cigarettes. 

GEORGE. 

I  mean  economically  non-productive.  It  doesn't 
really  increase  the  wealth  of  the  country. 

LUCY. 

I  dare  say.     It  increases  ours,  though. 

GEORGE. 

(Warming.)  It's  a  business  which  fattens  on 
the  lives  of  others.  You  understand?  In  order 


THIS  GENERATION  43 

that   you    and    I   may    live   in    luxury,    we    must 
do   harm   to    our    fellow -creatures. 

LUCY. 

It  seems  dreadful  when  you  put  it  like  that. 
I  only  wish  you  were  rich  enough  to  retire. 

GEORGE. 

(With   emphasis.)     I   have   retired. 

LUCY 

(Springing  up  and  coming  towards  him 
delightedly.)  Oh,  George,  I'm  so  glad  !  I  know 
how  you've  stuck  to  it,  though  you  hated  the 
whole  concern.  It's  nice  to  think  you  can  afford 
to  get  out  of  it. 

GEORGE. 

(In  a  curious  voice.)  I  can't.  That's  why 
I've  done  so.  We  shall  have  to  live  now  in  quite 
a  different  way — a  very  small  way.  It  will  be 
the  sacrifice  we  make  to  duty. 

LUCY. 

(Leaning  affectionately  on  his  shoulder.)  I 
know  your  good  heart,  George,  and  how  you  live 
for  others.  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish.  If  you 
think  we  can  really  help  people  by  going  into 
a  smaller  house,  I  shan't  complain.  I  shall  be 
proud  to  back  you  up.  But  don't  forget  that 
the  less  we  spend  the  more  the  tradespeople  will 
suffer . 


44  THIS   GENERATION 

GEOEGE. 

(Tenderly.}  There's  a  brave  little  woman. 
(He  kisses  her.)  We  shall  be  very  poor.  We 
shall  have  hardly  anything. 

LUCY. 

(Starting  back.)     Why?    You're  not  bankrupt? 

GEORGE . 

I'm  as  good.  I've  turned  my  back  on  the  old 
life,  once  for  all.  I've  given  up  wealth  and 
the  world's  consideration  in  order  to  tread  the 
higher  path.  (Stretching  out  his  arms  appeal- 
ingly.)  Let  us  tread  it,  dear — hand  in  hand — 
together . 

LUCY. 

But  can't  you  put  off  retiring  till  you've  made 
enough  money? 

GEORGE. 

Impossible  !  That  would  be  the  basest 
cowardice . 

LUCY. 

But  people  will  have  cheap  cigarettes.  If  you 
don't  make  them,  somebody  else  will. 

GEORGE. 

(Indignantly.)  Oh,  Lucy — Lucy — don't  say 
that  !  It's  the  devil's  excuse  for  every  sin. 


THIS  GENERATION  45 

LUCY. 

And  you  always  told  me  you  restrained  your 
partners.  They'll  be  able  to  do  much  more  harm 
when  you're  gone.  Have  you  thought  of  that? 

GEORGE. 

Yes,  yes.  When  one  tries  to  do  right,  in  the 
horrible  mess  of  our  civilization,  one's  liable  to 
bring  evil  as  well  as  good  to  others — I  know 
that.  But  that  mustn't  stop  us.  If  one  does 
right  it  will  all  turn  out  for  the  best,  in  the  long 
run. 

LUCY. 

Where  are  we  going? 

GEORGE. 

(Rigidly.)     To  a  little  shop. 

LUCY. 

(Gasping.)     To   a  little  shop  ! 

GEORGE . 

To    a   little    newspaper    shop    in    Notting    Hill. 

LUCY. 

That's  impossible  ! 

GEORGE . 

No.     I  intend  to  take  it. 

LUCY. 

(Indignant — outraged.)     You   must   be   mad  ! 


46  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

I've  become  a  fool  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
that  I  may  help  my  fellow -creatures.  You 
believe  the  New  Testament  was  divinely  inspired. 
Don't  you  wish  to  follow  its  teaching?  Have 
you  forgotten  the  words  :  "  Love  not  the  World, 
neither  the  things  that  are  in  the  World  ?,  " 

LUCY. 

Of  course  not  !  But  people  in  our  position,  even 
the  most  religious  people,  don't  keep  little  shops. 

GEOEGE. 

(In  his  turn  growing  hotter.}  Never  use  that 
disgusting  word  "  position  'M 

LUCY. 

What  word  may  I;  use,  then? 

GEOEGE. 

None  !     We  shall  have  no  position. 

LUCY. 

It's  degrading.  We  don't  belong  to  the  shop- 
keeping  class.  I  ought  to  have  been  consulted 
first. 

GEOEGE. 

My  mind  was  made  up.  It  would  only  have 
distressed  us  both.  Perhaps  the  thought  of  you 
and  the  children  has  made  me  procrastinate.  I'm 
sorry  I  didn't  speak  before. 


THIS   GENERATION  47 

LUCY. 

I  ought  to  have  been  consulted  first.  Father '11 
never  allow  it. 

GEOEGE. 

Your  father's  consent  will  not  be  asked. 

LUCY. 

It  will  by  me.  And  what's  to  become  of  the 
children  ?  You  can't  wish  to  ruin  them  as  well  ! 

GEORGE. 

They'll  have  to  go  to  school — a  Provided  School. 

LUCY. 

What's  that? 

GEORGE. 

A  Board  School. 

LUCY. 

(With  lofty  certainty.)  Oh,  of  course  that's 
impossible. 

GEORGE. 

(With  conciliation.)  I  don't  think  we  need 
discuss  it  now.  My  mind's  made  up.  I  go  to 
the  shop  whether  you  come  with  me  or  not- 

LUCY. 

(All  trace  of  temper  gone,  but  in  deep  distress.) 
It  all  seems  so  horrible.  I  can't  realize  it  yet. 


48  -THIS  GENERATION 

These  wicked,  crazy  people  have  got  hold  of  you, 
dear,  and  dragged  you  down.  They  play  on  your 
kindness  of  heart.  They  make  a  tool  of  you. 
I've  seen  it  coming  on  for  years,  like  some  vice 
such  as  secret  drinking.  I've  struggled  and 
struggled  to  save  you,  and  all  in  vain.  (On  the 
edge  of  tears.)  Oh,  George,  I'm  very  unhappy! 
Forgive  me — I  hardly  know  what  I'm  saying. 
(She  leans  against  him.)  But  you  know  I'm 
coming  with  you. 

GEOEGE. 

(Putting  his  arm  around  her.)  Poor  child — 
poor  child  !  I'm  asking  a  terrible  sacrifice.  You 
can't  help  suffering.  Don't  criticize,  Lucy,  but 
help  me — I  need  your  help  so  much.  I  hope 
you  won't  only  come  for  my  sake,  but  because 
you  feel  it's  right. 

LUCY. 

You  know  how  I  love  you,  George.  I'll  do 
anything — even  keep  a  shop  to  please  you.  But 
don't  ask  me  to  believe  in  your  views.  It's  hope- 
less. I  never  shall. 

GEORGE. 

(Sadly.)  Then  we  must  make  the  best  of  it. 
But  I'm  like  Pilgrim  fleeing  from  the  City  of 
Destruction.  I  daren't  look  back. 

LUCY. 

Pilgrim  left  his  wife  and  children,  but  nothing 
shall  ever  make  us  part. 


THIS   GENERATION  49 

GEOEGE. 

No,  darling — nothing,  nothing  !  (He  walks  a 
step  or  two,  then  returns.)  I've  another  bad 
piece  of  news,  though,  thank  Heaven,  it  doesn't 
affect  you  much.  Laura  has  run  away  from  her 
husband.  It's  better  to  tell  you,  because  you  may 
hear  it  at  any  time. 

LUCY. 

(Shocked.)     Oh,  George — how  horrible  !     Why? 

GEORGE. 

They   didn't   get   on. 

LUCY. 

She's  gone  off — alone? 

GEORGE. 

(Hastily.)  No — with  young  Learmouth.  They 
got  very  intimate — going  about  together  for  social 
work.  She's  made  a  fool  of  herself,  because  she 
has  got  a  false  idea  that  sexual  liberty  is  part  of 
the  new  morality. 

LUCY. 

(Breaking  out  bitterly.)  The  new  morality  ! 
It's  all  this  Socialism — this  accursed  Socialism  ! 
It's  immoral,  sinful,  godless  !  Every  one  knows 
it  destroys  the  family.  It's  turned  her  into  a 
wicked  woman. 

4 


50  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

(Warmly.)  It's  not  true.  It's  not  right  to 
say  that.  Homes  are  broken  up  in  every  rank 
of  life.  It's  vice,  not  Socialism.  Socialism  will 
build  with  bricks  of  new  virtue.  But  its  founda- 
tions rest  on  the  old.  Don't  be  uncharitable.  We 
must  forgive  poor  Laura. 

LUCY 

I  shouldn't  wish  to  be  hard  on  the  wretched 
woman.  I  suppose  we  shall  never  see  her  again. 

GEORGE. 

I  can't  say. 

LUCY. 

Of  course  we  can't  receive  her  in  future. 

GEORGE. 

"  To  know  all  is  to  pardon  all." 

LUCY. 

Not  a  life  of  open  sin. 

(She  moves  towards  the  door.  He  throws 
himself  into  a  chair  and  begins  to  refill 
his  pipe.) 

END  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT. 


THE    SECOND    ACT 


THE     SECOND    ACT 

SCENE  : — The  living-room  behind  the  little  shop 
in  Notting  Hill  is  small  and  dark.  Its 
back  window  looks  into  a  sunless  court- 
yard. On  the  left  is  the  door  to  the 
shop;  on  the  right,  the  fireplace  and 
door  to  the  kitchen.  There  is  an  unusual 
air  about  the  place  suggesting  cultivation 
blended  with  poverty.  The  wallpaper  is 
shabby  but  is  hung  with  the  pictures  from  the 
old  home.  There  is  a  book-filled  bookcase. 
The  tables  are  also  covered  with  books  as 
well  as  half-finished  art-frames,  children's 
toys,  etc.  Everything  is  perfectly  neat,  but 
crowded  together  a  little  incongruously.  The 
statuette  stands  on  the  mantelshelf  flanked  by 
old  china,  a  tin  of  tobacco,  pipes,  and  so  on. 
There  are  remnants  from  the  old  life— a 
couple  of  beautiful  chairs  and  a  French 
table.  A  typewriter  stands  on  a  small  table 
in  the  window.  Hats  and  coats  are  hanging 
on  pegs  by  the  shop  door. 

(The  hour  is  8  a.m.  LUCY,  GEOKGE'S 
sister  LAURA,  and  HAROLD  and  MILLIE 
are  seated  at  breakfast.  LAURA  is  a 

53 


54  THIS   GENERATION 

hard,  sharp,  capable  woman  of  about 
twenty-five,  who,  feeling  herself  to  be 
one  of  the  fittest  to  survive  and  conquer, 
entirely  enjoys  the  struggle  for  life. 
The  children — aged  ten  and  eight — are 
bright,  pretty,  and  especially  neatly  and 
suitably  dressed.  LUCY  looks  rather 
pale  and  worn.) 

GEORGE . 

(Entering  from  the  shop  and  seating  himself. 
To   his  sister.)     Good   morning! 

(The  children  jump  up,  run  round  and  kiss 
him.) 

MILLIE. 

Where's  our  Daily  Mirror,  daddy? 

GEORGE. 

Here.      (He  hands  it  her.     She  returns  to  her 
place  and  looks  at  it  while  she  eats.) 

MILLIE. 

It's  the  most  beautiful  paper  in  England — isn't 
it,  father? 

HAROLD. 

(Producing   a   sovereign.)      Look   what   grand- 
father  gave   me   yesterday — a   pound  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  55 

GEOEGE. 

Let  me  keep  it  for  you. 

HAROLD. 

(Alarmed.)  He  said  I  might  spend  it — and 
buy  something  for  mother  with  half.  He  said  you 
don't  give  mother  enough  money.  Why  are  you 
so  unkind  ? 

GEORGE . 

Because  now  we  haven't  got  much.  Spend  it 
all  on  mother — there's  a  good  boy. 

LUCY. 

No,  no,  Harold.  Mother  wants  nothing.  We'll 
spend  half  together  and  keep  the  rest.  Would  you 
call  Matilda? 

(He    goes    to    the    kitchen    door    and    calls 
MATILDA.    Then  returns  to  his  place.) 

HAROLD. 

Grandfather  says  he'll  give  me  a  big  house 
some  day.  He  says  you'll  try  to  stop  my  having 
it — but  you  won't,  daddy,  will  you? 

GEORGE . 

Grandfather  was  only  joking. 

LUCY. 

(To  the  servant  entering.)  When  are  we  going 
to  have  our  tea? 


56  THIS   GENERATION 

MATILDA. 

(A  young,  not  untidy  servant.)  The  water 
don't  boil  yet. 

LUCY. 

Why  not?      It's  getting  late. 

MATILDA. 

The  fire  wouldn't  light.  The  sticks  are  damp. 
You  can't  'ave  no  tea  yet. 

GEORGE. 

(With  the  most  cheerful  resignation.)  Then 
we  must  make  the  best  of  it  and  do  without. 

LAURA. 

Certainly  not  !  Bring  in  the  kettle,  Matilda — 
I'll  boil  it  up  on  the  spirit  lamp.  (MATILDA 
goes.)  i 

LUCY. 

I  don't  think  we've  got  enough  spirit. 

LAURA. 

Leave  it  to  me.  Matilda's  a  fool.  (She  rises, 
gets  out  the  spirit  lamp,  puts  it  on  the  hob  and 
lights  it.) 

LUCY. 

She's  very  willing,  but  she's  forgetful.  We 
may  have  to  part  with  her. 


THIS   GENERATION  57 

HAROLD. 

Why  haven't  we  got  much  money?  We  used 
to  have  lots. 

GEORGE. 

I'll  tell  you  when  you're  older,  Harold.  You 
won't  want  much  money  then. 

HAROLD. 

Yes,  I  shall — lots  and  lots.  Mother  says  if  I 
make  a  great  deal  of  money  when  I'm  grown  up, 
I  can  have  a  motor — six  cylinders — sixty  horse- 
power. 

(The  servant  brings  in  the  kettle.} 

GEORGE. 

(Turning  to  his  wife.)  We  may  not  be  able  to 
afford  a  servant  at  all.  My  frames  don't  sell. 
The  shop  hardly  pays  in  spite  of  all  the  degrading 
rot  we  stock,  and  our  own  literature  doesn't  go 
off  as  well  as  I  hoped.  Which  is  the  worst — to 
go  bankrupt  or  sell  comic  postcards  ?  (To  his 
sister.)  How  hopeless  life  is  !  It  was  impossible  to 
be  consistent  and  make  a  fortune  in  business,  and 
now  it's  impossible  to  be  consistent  and  make  any 
money  at  all ! 

LAURA. 

You  always  were  a  theorist,  George.  March 
for  the  Promised  Land — but  rob  the  Egyptians 
first  !  Try  actress  and  prizefighter  photos. 


58 

HAROLD. 

Oh,  yes,  daddy,  do  !  It'll  make  our  shop 
swanky. 

LUCY. 

Please  don't  use  that  horrible  word. 

HAROLD. 

Why  not?  The  other  boys  do.  There's  a 
boy  at  school  whose  mother  sings  at  a  music- 
hall.  She's  Miss  Pansy  Belgrave,  and  she's  got 
a  boy  and  hasn't  a  husband.  Isn't  that  funny  ! 

LUCY. 

(Hastily.)     He  must  be  dead. 

GEORGE. 

(To  LAURA.)  I  seem  to  have  no  time  for  social 
work,  and  I'm  awfully  keen  on  that. 

LUCY. 

I'm  afraid,  dear,  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  get 
on  without  a  servant.  But  I'm  sure  father  would 
pay  for  one  gladly. 

GEORGE. 

I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  his.  J  would  sooner 
go  to  the  workhouse  ! 

LAURA. 

That  sounds  all  right.      But  what  about  your 


THIS   GENERATION  59 

wife  and  children?     They've  not  been  brought  up 
to  rough  it. 

HAROLD. 

I've  spilt  some  butter  on  my   "  trawsers." 

GEORGE. 

Say    "  trousers." 

HAROLD. 

All  the  boys  say  "  trawsers." 

LUCY. 

Yes,  but  you're  not  a  common  little  boy.  You're 
a  little  gentleman. 

(She  rises,  and  makes  the  tea.) 

GEORGE. 

(Gently.)  I  thought  we  had  dropped  the  word 
"gentleman  "? 

LUCY. 

I  never  shall.  We  need  it  more  than  ever. 
The  children  must  be  helped  to  remember  we're 
not  common  tradespeople.  The  roof  leaked  again 
last  night  in  the  children's  room.  It  hasn't  been 
mended  yet. 

GEORGE. 

(Warmly.)  I've  been  twice  to  the  landlord 
about  it.  He  promised  to  get  it  mended  a  month 
ago,  but  nothing's  been  done. 


60  THIS   GENERATION 

LAURA. 

What  can  you  expect  of  a  landlord  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Flaring  up.)  What,  indeed  !  Landlord  and 
tenant — vampire  and  victim  !  Rent  is  the  greatest 
wrong  of  our  social  system.  It's  really  the  black- 
mail we  pay  to  Monopoly  to  spare  our  lives. 
We  must  tax  it  out  of  existence.  I'm  glad  that 
we  should  have  something  to  bear  for  one  thing — 
we  can  realize  better  what  the  poor  must  endure. 

LUCY. 

Yes.     But  what  about  the  leak? 

GEORGE. 

The  kids  must  learn  to  put  up  with  it.  It  will 
be  a  lesson. 

LUCY. 

We  shall  have  them  ill  if  we  don't  take  care. 

LAURA. 

Get  a  sheet  of  zinc — nail  it  over  the  place, 
George,  and  keep  your  breath  to  cool  your 
porridge  ! 

LUCY. 

They  are  looking  pale  already.  They  ought 
to  have  meat  for  breakfast. 


THIS   GENERATION  61 

GEORGE. 

But,  my  dear,  we've  become  vegetarians.  We 
can't  possibly 

LUCY. 

(Interrupting.)     I've   ordered   some   bacon. 

MILLIE. 

(Shouts  with  delight.)  Bacon — nice  bacon  ! 
We're  going  to  have  bacon  ! 

LUCY. 

You  and  I  may  injure  our  health  on  principle, 
but  I  can't  allow  the  poor  children  to  suffer. 

GEORGE. 

(With  real  compunction.)  But  do  take  some 
meat,  dear,  as  well.  I  never  dreamt  that  giving  it 
up  wouldn't  suit  you. 

LUCY. 

(Touched.)  It's  kind  of  you  to  say  that, 
George.  I'll  order  some  for  myself  and  the 
children.  I'm  afraid  we  need  it.  I  suppose 
it's  the  force  of  habit. 

GEORGE. 

Tom  hasn't  had  anything  yet.  (Calls.)  Tom 
—Torn! 

(TOM  GWOTKIN,  a  aelicate,  hectic,  neurotic 
youth,  enters  and  seats  himself,  leaving 
the  door  ajar.) 


62  THIS   GENERATION 

TOM. 

A  man's  just  come  in  and  said  he  wanted  his 
morning  paper  left  at  his  house.  Several  people 
have  spoken  about  it  lately. 

GEORGE . 

Of  course  !  You'd  better  take  them  round  first 
thing  to-morrow. 

TOM. 

(Rather  sulkily.}     Can't  you  get  a  boy? 

GEORGE. 

Can't  afford  one  !  Besides,  that  sort  of  casual 
labour  for  boys  is  demoralizing — it  leads  to  un- 
employment. 

TOM. 

I  thought  when  I  came  here  I  should  help 
to  spread  the  Light — you'd  get  me  some  writing  in 
one  of  our  papers.  I  didn't  come  here  as  an 
errand  hoy. 

GEORGE . 

There's  one  thing  you  yet  have  to  learn,  Tom, 
and  that's  the  dignity  of  labour.  A  true  man 
is  never  degraded  by  any  work,  so  long  as  it's 
useful . 

TOM. 

Even  the  booksellers  didn't  make  me  carry 
parcels.  I  was  behind  the  counter — and  that  was 


THIS   GENERATION  63 

a    Tory    shop  !       When    we've    made    the    State 
master,   my   job'll   be   writing   poetry   and   plays. 

LAURA. 

(Caustically.}  Tempered,  I  hope,  by  some  use- 
ful work  in  the  sewers  ! 

HAROLD. 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  any  fleas  to-day? 

LUCY. 

Hush,  dear,  hush  ! 

HAROLD. 

(Not  to  be  repressed.}  Millie  got  two  fleas 
yesterday.  Mother  caught  'em  ! 

LUCY. 

(With  awful  meaning.}  They  were  not  exactly 
— fleas  ! 

GEORGE. 

Never  mind.  Treat  it  all  as  you  would  an 
unpleasant  practical  joke.  (To  the  children.} 
Most  poor  children  haven't  got  a  good  mother 
like  yours.  You  must  set  an  example.  That's 
one  of  the  reasons  I  send  you  to  school.  If  clean 
children  go  to  school,  the  dirty  children  may 
want  to  be  clean  as  well. 

MILLIE. 

But  I  hate  dirty  children.     Rosey  Perkins  looks 


64  THIS   GENERATION 

so  funny.     She's  had  her  head  shaved.     Why  did 
her  mother   do   it? 

LUCY. 

Perhaps  her  head  was — poorly.  (Bitterly.) 
Your  head  may  have  to  be  shaved  in  a  day 
or  two. 

HAROLD. 

(Cheered  at  the  prospect.)  You'll  look  like  a 
funny  old  man,  Millie  !  It'll  make  the  hoys  bust 
with  laughing. 

MILLIE. 

(Bursts  out  in  horror.)  I  won't  have  it  shaved  ! 
— I  won't  have  it  shaved  ! 

LUCY. 

Hush  !  (Rising.)  It's  time  you  were  off  to 
school,  children.  (Goes  to  the  kitchen  door  and 
calls.)  Matilda,  you  can  clear  away. 

GEORGE. 

(Rising.)     Is  it  schooltime  yet? 

(The  maid  enters  with  a  tray.  LAURA  rises, 
carries  her  cup  to  the  typewriting- 
table  and  begins  to  work.  The  click 
of  the  machine  is  heard  continuously. 
LUCY  helps  the  children  to  collect  their 
books  and  get  ready.  TOM  remains 
seated.) 


THIS   GENERATION  65 

LUCY. 

They  mustn't  miss  their  Bible  lesson. 

TOM. 

(Grumbling,  sarcastic.}  You  can't  say  I've 
wasted  time  over  breakfast  ! 

GEORGE. 

I  hope  you've  had  enough,  Tom? 

TOM. 

Enough    for   an    errand    boy  ! 

GEORGE. 

(To  the  children.)  All  right.  Run  away.  Be 
good  children,  and  learn  as  much  as  you  can  at  the 
Scripture  class. 

LUCY. 

That'll  please  mother  and  father  more  than 
anything. 

(She  kisses  them  as  they  run  out.) 

LAURA. 

(To  GEORGE.)  I'm  so  glad  you  said  what  you 
did  about  the  Bible  lesson. 

GEORGE. 

Children  are  better  for  some  religion.  It  gives 
their  imagination  a  standard  before  reason  is 
developed. 

5 


66  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

(Distressed.)  Oh,  George,  how  can  you  talk 
like  that  !  I  couldn't  bear  the  vexations  of  life 
for  a  day  if  it  wasn't  for  religion — and  prayer. 

GEORGE. 

(In  a  low  voice  to  LUCY.  They  are  standing 
by  the  fireplace.)  I  know,  dear.  Don't  think  I 
ever  sneer  at  your  faith.  I  wish  I  could  share  it. 

LUCY. 

You  will  some  day,  George,  if  my  prayers  are 
answered . 

(The   shop   bell   rings.      GEORGE    and    TOM 
go  into  the  shop.) 

LUCY. 

(To  the  maid  who  has  loaded  the  tray.)  I'll 
come  and  help  you  to  wash  up. 

(They  go  out  together.) 

(GEORGE  returns  with  an  armful  of  morning 
papers,  which  he  proceeds  to  arrange.) 

GEORGE. 

Poor  Lucy  !  I'm  quite  concerned  about  her. 
She's  not  looking  the  thing  at  all.  I'm  afraid  she's 
not  fitted  for  our  life. 

LAURA. 

(Typing  all   the   time.)     Absolutely   unfitted  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  67 

She  was  brought  up   in   a  self-indulgent  home — 
never  taught  to  do  anything  useful. 

GEORGE. 

(Nettled.)  She  naturally  wasn't  brought  up 
to  this  kind  of  thing.  She  was  brought  up  as  a 
lady,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  She  can't,  of  course, 
see  things  from  my  point  of  view  at  present. 
That  makes  her  sacrifice  all  the  finer.  She's 
worried  about  the  children  just  now.  So  am  I. 
With  our  principles,  a  Council  School  ought  to  be 
the  right  thing — till  the  State  provides  a  better. 
But  somehow  it's  disappointing. 

LAUEA. 

Children  are  always  a  stumbling-block.  That's 
why  we  didn't  have  any. 

GEORGE. 

(A  little  shocked — protesting.)  But  the 
family  is  the  foundation  of  everything.  We 
always  declare  it's  a  libel  to  say  that  Socialism 
destroys  the  family. 

LAURA. 

It's  the  family  that  keeps  up  the  feudal  abuses. 
It  stands  in  the  way  of  progress.  It's  obstruc- 
tive. It  doesn't  work  nowadays.  It  will  have  to 
be  readjusted — or  limited. 

GEORGE. 

A  house  is  so  desolate  without  children.     You 


68  THIS   GENERATION 

can  hardly  call  it  a  home.  They  bring  worry, 
anxiety,  even  sorrow,  but  the  happiness  swallows 
up  all  that.  Doesn't  love  bring  children — and 
children  love  ? 

LAUKA. 

You're  just  a  romantic  man,  George  !  Your 
ideas  about  women  are  twenty  years  behind  the 
times.  You're  still  Oriental.  We've  done  with 
being  cherished  and  cosited.  All  that  coddling 
that  some  women  fish  for  is  really  prostitution. 
We  have  so  much  outside  work  nowadays  :  the 
maternal  instinct  is  weakening.  We  mistrust  the 
idea  of  babies.  They  hamper  our  usefulness. 
How  can  a  woman  be  a  pioneer  with  a  lot  of 
brats  hanging  round  her? 

GEORGE. 

But  if  the  race  is  to  be  improved  the  best 
must  multiply  faster  than  the  worst.  Science  is 
clear  on  that.  i 

LAURA. 

(With  decisive  emphasis.)  If  the  good  of  the 
human  race  depends  on  the  subjection  of  women — 
and  it  possibly  may — then  all  I  can  say  is, 
"  damn  the  race  !  " 

GEORGE. 

You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about ! 

LAURA. 

Perfectly  !     It's  you  who  won't  understand  that 


THIS  GENERATION  69 

our  views  on  sex  are  progressive.  Lots  of  us 
are  sick  of  the  thraldom  of  marriage — the  drudgery 
of  motherhood.  We're  refusing  to  turn  ourselves 
into  breeding -machines  to  please  any  man.  If 
we  wish  to  have  children,  we'll  have  them  ;  and 
if  not — not  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Open-mouthed,)  My  dear  Laura !  Without 
consulting  your  husbands? 

LAURA. 

Don't  be  silly  !  (She  stops  typing.)  As  for 
you  and  Lucy — you're  opposite  characters,  and 
your  views  are  absolutely  opposed.  You'll  never 
be  happy  together. 

GEORGE. 

What  do  you  mean? 

LAURA. 

What  I  say.  (Resuming  her  work.)  Charles 
and  I  never  got  on,  so  we  both  thought  it  better 
that  I  should  go  off  with  Learmouth.  Learmouth 
and  I  found  our  lives  didn't  fit — I  had  to  live  in 
town  and  he  wanted  the  country — so  we  parted 
by  mutual  consent,  and  I  came  here.  There  was 
no  romance,  or  sex  problem,  or  bitterness  on 
any  one's  part.  We  all  agree  with  the  New 
Moral  Law.  Love  is  the  only  warrant  for 
cohabitation . 


70  THIS   GENERATION 

GEOEGE. 

(With  indignation.)  Your  attitude's  cold- 
blooded and  shameless  enough  in  all  conscience  ! 

LAURA. 

(Unruffled.)  Exactly  !  Jealousy — like  war — 
is  merely  a  savage  survival.  We  three  behaved 
like  rational  beings — not  savages — and  so  are  per- 
fectly happy.  Don't  be  sentimental.  You  and 
Lucy  would  both  be  far  happier  if  you  separated. 

GEORGE. 

(Furious.)  How  dare  you  say  that!  We're 
devoted  to  each  other — Lucy  and  I  !  (He  can 
hardly  find  words  for  his  indignation.)  Why — we 
—we  love  each  other  with  a  love  you  couldn't 
conceive,  much  less  understand  1  If  we  ever  seem 
to  differ — or  differ — it's  all  my  fault.  I  dare  say 
I  made  the  change  too  abruptly.  Nature  works 
slowly  by  degrees — and  so  should  we. 

LAURA. 

(Quite  calm.)  Well,  don't  forget  my  advice. 
You'll  never  be  happy  together,  and  the  sooner 
you  separate  the  better. 

GEORGE. 

Please  keep  your  advice  till  it's  asked  for  !  .  .  . 
You  know  nothing  about  us. 


THIS   GENERATION  71 

LAURA. 

(Rising.)  I've  an  article  to  take  down  to  the 
office.  (Unhanging  her  hat.)  The  Daily  Phone 
people  mean  to  keep  me  busy. 

(She  goes  out.  GEORGE  follows  with  papers, 
but  returns  at  once.  After  a  moment 
LUCY  enters.) 

LUCY. 

Has  she  gone? 

GEORGE. 
Yes. 

LUCY. 

I  heard  her  stop.  The  clatter  of  that  machine 
almost  drives  me  mad. 

(She  moves  about  tidying  the  place  as  she 
talks . ) 

GEORGE. 

(With  concern.)  I'm  sorry,  dear  ;  you're  not 
feeling  fit.  Don't  overwork  yourself.  Let  Matilda 
do  more. 

LUCY. 

My  stupid  nerves  are  getting  affected,  I  think. 
It's  not  the  work,  it's  the  life. 


72  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

That  ought  to  be  healthy  enough. 

LUCY. 

It's  difficult  to  put  it  exactly  into  words.  I 
seem  to  disapprove  of  so  many  of  your  ideas.  I 
lie  awake  at  night — thinking — and  thinking — and 
trying  to  persuade  myself  that  it's  I  who  am  in 
the  wrong.  But  I  can't  !  After  all,  we're  made 
by  our  upbringing,  and  I  can't  believe  that  this 
is  a  good  life  for  any  of  us.  I'm  sure  it's  not 
good  for  the  children. 

GEORGE. 

Poor  dear  !  (Kisses  her.)  Don't  worry  about 
it  all  just  now.  Have  faith.  You'll  look  at  things 
differently  after  a  bit. 

LUCY. 

No,  George — never  !  (A  moment's  hesitation, 
then  firmly.)  We  can't  go  on  like  this. 

GEORGE. 

We  can  if  we're  brave. 

LUCY. 

No  !  It's  time  I  spoke  out.  There  are  several 
things  I  want  to  talk  over.  I've  put  it  off  from 
day  to  day,  George,  because  I  didn't  wish  to 
hurt  your  feelings. 


THIS   GENERATION  73 

GEOEGE. 

No  fear  of  that,  dear.  There  must  never  be 
anything  between  you  and  me. 

(A  little  apprehensive,  he  nervously  fills  his 
pipe.     LUCY,   also   nervous   and   appre- 
hensive, speaks  with  hesitation  through- 
out.) 
LUCY. 

Need  Tom  have  all  his  meals  with  us? 

GEORGE. 

I  pay  him  starvation  wages.  I  can't  afford 
better  ones.  It's  more  economical. 

LUCY. 

It  crowds  up  the  room  so. 

GEORGE. 

I'm  trying  to  get  him  a  place  at  the  Working 
Men's  Club.  That'll  solve  the  difficulty.  (Lights 
his  pipe.) 

LUCY. 

And  need  Laura  live  with  us?     She's  not 

(Confused.)    Well  !   think  of  her  past.    Her  influ- 
ence isn't  good  for  the  children. 

GEORGE. 

I  know  what  you  mean.  I  agree  with  you. 
But  we  must  have  her  here  to  help  pay  the  rent. 


74  THIS  GENERATION 

(Puffing  at  his  pipe.)  Everything  comes  back 
at  last  to  the  question  of  rent.  Rent !  It's  our 
Moloch  ! 

LUCY, 

(With  a  little  sigh.)  Very  well.  She'll  have 
to  stay,  I  suppose.  But  it's  not  right.  Her  being 
here  is  one  of  the  things  I  most  disapprove  of. 
If  it's  a  question  of  rent,  father  would  gladly 
help  us. 

GEORGE. 

I've  just  told  you  I  won't  touch  a  penny  of 
his. 

LUCY. 

Then  you  put  your  pride  before  saving  our 
children  from  contamination? 

GEORGE. 

We  should  seek  the  larger  charity  that  hates 
the  sin  but  pardons  the  sinner. 

LUCY. 

You  should  think  of  your  wife  and  children, 
too.  You  seem  always  prepared  to  sacrifice  them. 

TOM. 

(Entering  from  the  shop.)  The  month's  maga- 
zines have  come  in. 


THIS   GENERATION  75 

GEORGE. 

Then  take  them  round.  Leave  the  door  ajar. 
I  shall  hear  if  any  one  comes  in. 

(TOM  goes.) 
LUCY. 

I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  the  children's 
school.  (Summoning  up  courage.)  They  really 
mustn't  stay  on  there. 

GEORGE. 

(Speaking  with  extreme  conciliation.)  I'm 
sometimes  tempted  to  feel  that  myself.  But  when 
I  am,  I  ask  myself,  "  Don't  we  let  little  things 
jar  on  us  too  easily?  Aren't  we  over -fastidious?  " 
State  schools  for  all  classes  answer  in  Germany. 

LUCY. 

This  isn't  Germany — yet  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Putting  his  case  as  gently  as  possible.)  The 
essence  of  our  faith  is  cheerful  self-sacrifice. 
Ought  we  to  run  away  as  soon  as  we're  put  to 
the  test?  We  mustn't  be  selfish  about  our  kids. 
We  must  think  of  the  larger  issues.  If  more 
people  did  what  we're  doing,  the  whole  tone  of 
the  schools  would  be  raised.  Some  one  must  set 
an  example. 

LUCY. 

I'm  giving  up  everything  for  you. 


76  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

(Touching  her  affectionately  on  the  shoulder.} 
My  darling  !  I  wish  you  could  say,  "  Not  for 
me,  but  for  conscience'  sake." 

LUCY. 

No — for  you  !  But  I  won't  allow  Harold  and 
Millie  to  be  injured.  (After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion.} I  saw  father  yesterday.  He's  coming 
round  this  morning  to  speak  to  you  about  it. 

GEORGE. 

(With  controlled  indignation.)  I  shall  not  dis- 
cuss the  matter  with  your  father.  I  allow  no  man 
to  come  between  me  and  my  children. 

LUCY. 

(Firmly.)  You  forget  they're  my  children  as 
much  as  yours  !  Haven't  you  always  said  it's  a 
proof  of  the  infamous  degradation  of  women  that 
the  law  should  only  acknowledge  the  father's 
right  ? 

GEORGE. 

Yes — I've    always   said   that ! 

LUCY. 

And  that  the  children  belong  to  each  parent 
equally>  or,  if  there  were  a  difference,  the  mother's 
natural  rights  are  greater  than  his? 


THIS   GENERATION  77 

GEORGE. 

I    may   have    said    so.      It's    possible. 

LUCY. 

(With  maternal  fervour.}  You  did !  Well, 
my  children  are  going  to  proper  schools,  and 
father's  going  to  send  them. 

GEORGE. 

(Roused.)  I  can't  allow  that  !  How  can  I 
bring  up  my  children  consistently  if  you  thwart 
me  at  every  turn?  What  I  believe  in,  I  hope  to 
teach  them  to  believe  and  practise.  I  want  them 
to  learn  to  forget  self  and  live  for  others.  I'm 
going  to  train  them  at  home.  I  disapprove  of 
boarding  schools.  (Compromising.)  I  don't  say, 
if  we  could  afford  it,  I  mightn't  send  them  to  a 
co -educational  school  when  they're  older. 

LUCY.  ;          : 

(Decisively.)  That,  at  least,  I  could  never 
sanction.  The  truth  is,  we  can't  have  them 
brought  up  here  in  a  little  shop  as  though  we 
were  really  shopkeeping  people.  That  I'm 
determined  ! 

GEORGE. 

(With  extreme  bitterness.)  Then  we're  only 
playing  at  this,  I  suppose? 


78  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

Why,  of  course  ! 

(The  shop  bell  rings.  GEORGE  goes  to  the 
door  and  ushers  in  MR.  HARBURN,  who 
kisses  his  daughter.  He  is  a  large,  red- 
faced,  prosperous  City  financier— not 
exactly  pompous,  but  weighted  by  suc- 
cessful experience — not  a  tyrant,  but 
accustomed  to  receive  obedience.  As  the 
sentiments  he  expresses  have  worldly 
wisdom  and  common  sense,  he  is  not 
accustomed  to  be  contradicted.  In  a 
word,  he  is  one  of  those  powerful  men 
who  have  made  England  what  she  is.) 

LUCY. 

Perhaps  you  would   like  to  see  George  alone? 

HARBURN. 

I  should. 

(LUCY  goes  out.) 

(HARBURN  takes  a  seat.  His  manner  is 
quite  friendly,  and,  at  first,  patient.  It 
suggests  the  manner  of  a  kindly  person- 
age dealing  with  a  man  who  is  not  quite 
sane.) 

HARBURN. 

I've   come  to   speak   to   you  about   Harold   and 
Millie.     What  nice  children  they  are  to  be  sure  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  79 

I'm  very  fond  of  'em.  I  know  you  can't  afford 
anything  better  than  a  Board  School,  so  I've  come 
to  make  you  an  offer.  I'm  prepared  to  give  'em 
a  first-class  education — one  which  will  fit  'em 
for  their  station  in  life. 

GEORGE. 

Their  father  has  no  "  station  in  life,"  as  you 
call  it. 

HARBURN. 

More  shame  to  him  !  But  their  mother  has,  and 
means  her  children  to  keep  it. 

GEORGE. 

(With  cold  politeness.)  It's  very  good  of  you. 
I  regret  that  I  must  decline  your  generous  offer. 

HARBURN. 

(Persuasively.)  Come,  he  reasonable — use  a 
little  common  sense  !  I  quite  appreciate  your  love 
of  reform.  I'm  a  Liberal  myself — I  once  was  a 
Radical.  But  is  it  fair  to  the  children  not  to 
give  'em  every  advantage?  There's  nothing  like 
a  good  education  to  help  'em  to  make  their  way 
in  the  world. 

GEORGE. 

I  don't  want  them  to  "make  their  way  in  the 
world." 


80  THIS   GENERATION 

HARBUEN. 

May  I  ask  why? 

GEORGE. 

I'm  afraid  if  I  explained  you  would  hardly 
understand.  You're  a  rich  banker  and  I'm  an 
idealist.  (With  the  eloquence  of  a  pure 
enthusiast.)  You  look  on  the  world  as  a  prize- 
ring  in  which  the  battle  of  life  is  fought,  where 
victory  means  wealth  at  others'  expense  and 
defeat  means  going  under.  While  I  look  on  the 
world  as  a  social  organism,  just  emerging  from 
chaos,  where  wealth  will  be  love — not  capital  ; 
and  all  men  brothers — not  rivals.  Where  the  weak 
will  be  helped — the  strong  be  the  helpers.  And 
the  victorious  those  who  do  most  good  to  their 
fellows.  That  is  my  gospel  !  It  used  to  be 
called  Christianity.  It  failed.  Now  it's  called 
Socialism,  and  is  marching  on — conquering,  and 
to  conquer  !  I  mean  to  train  up  my  children  to 
follow  it. 

i| 

HARBURN. 

(Still  patient.)  Very  nice — very  nice,  indeed  ! 
But  not  practical.  (Meaning  to  be  jocose.)  I 
think  the  great  success  of  your  business  must 
have  been  wholly  due  to  your  partners'  push. 

- 
GEORGE. 

It  was.     I  always  tried  to  check  it. 


THIS   GENERATION  81 

HARBURN. 

(Grave  once  more.)  The  prosperity  of  the 
country  depends  on  push.  It's  you  people  who 
make  the  unemployed.  You  know  how  shocked  I 
was  when  you  threw  up  your  prospects.  It  was 
the  act  of  a  madman.  (Pause.)  Forgive  my 
asking  if  you  are  a  Believer? 

GEORGE. 

I  am — in  the  future  of  humanity  ! 

HARBURN. 

(Much  shocked.)  Then  don't  compare  your 
so-called  gospel  with  our  Christianity.  We  owe 
our  whole  civilization — under  Providence — to 
Christianity  and  the  spirit  of  rational  progress. 
Socialism  is  becoming  a  pest  that  will  have  to 
be  put  down  with  a  high  hand.  It's  getting 
into  the  Press  and  the  pulpit.  I'm  told  it's  even  got 
into  the  theatre.  But  I  don't  intend  to  have  my 
grandchildren  poisoned — do  you  hear  !  (Getting 
angry.)  You  may  wish  to  have  their  future 
ruined  to  suit  your  craze,  but  their  mother  and 
I  have  made  up  our  minds  to  stop  it.  A  poor 
little  shop  in  a  slum  is  no  place  for  my  grand- 
children . 

GEORGE. 

(With  extreme  self -repression.)  I've  said  all 
I've  got  to  say. 

6 


82  THIS   GENERATION 

HARBURN. 

(Rising  and  flaring  up.)  You're  ruining  your 
wife's  health  as  well.  I  was  shocked  to  see  her 
yesterday.  She's  too  loyal  to  you  to  complain. 
But  I  pumped  it  out  of  her.  You're  starving 
them  all.  I  suppose  that's,  one  of  your 
beautiful  principles  ;  I  suppose  it's  to  teach  'em 
some  brand-new  form  of  self-sacrifice.  But  I'm 
her  father,  and  I'm  going  to  save  her  before  you 
kill  her  with  cranky  bigotry. 

GEORGE. 

(Breaking  out.)  You're  her  father — and  so  I 
take  more  from  you  than  I  would  from  another 
man.  But  after  what  you've  said,  I  shan't  stoop 
to  exonerate  myself.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
I've  nothing  more  to  add.  (Sternly.)  But  be 
careful  !  I  love  my  wife  and  children  too  much 
to  allow  such  lies  to  be  told  about  them.  You  will 
repeat  them  at  your  peril  ! 

HARBURN. 

There's  no  need  to  repeat  anything  here.  One 
is  never  grounded  for  lack  of  scandalous  matter 
in  this  house  !  It's  no  place  for  a  decent  woman. 
I  know  all  about  your  shameless  sister.  If  you 
care  nothing  for  the  purity  of  your  home — if 
you've  no  decent  respect  for  your  wife  and  children 
— I  have  !  (Presenting  his  ultimatum.)  They 
are  going  to  leave  you  and  coming  to  live  with  me. 


THIS   GENERATION  83 

GEORGE. 

You  don't  know  Lucy.  She's  all  love  and  faith. 
She'd  never  desert  me.  Her  home  is  here. 

HARBURN. 

We  discussed  it  yesterday.  She  feels  her  first 
duty  just  now  is  to  poor  dear  Harold  and  Millie. 

GEORGE. 

She's  a  free  agent  !  She  can  do  what  she 
likes.  But  I'll  never  believe  it.  We'll  ask  her. 

(He  goes  to  the  door  and  calls  LUCY.     In 
a  moment  she  enters,  paler  than  ever.} 

GEORGE . 

(Speaking  quite  calmly  and  kindly,  but  with 
extreme  distinctness.}  Your  father  has  offered 
to  educate  the  children.  .  .  .  I've  told  him  my 
views.  .  .  .  He  says  you  wish  to  leave  me  and 
take  them  with  you.  .  .  .I've  told  him  that  he 
is  mistaken — he  doesn't  know  you. 

LUCY. 

(In  a  concentrated  voice.}  If  I  stay  with  you 
will  you  let  him  educate  them,  and  send  Harold 
to  a  public  school? 

HARBURN. 

(With  unction.)  Eton  or  Harrow  ! — Eton  or 
Harrow  ! 


84:  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 
No. 

LUCY. 

But  they  must  have  a  decent  education — they 
must  leave  the  school  and  this  slum.  I'm  going 
to  put  my  foot  down.  You  always  said  a  wife 
should  be  economically  independent.  Now  you'll 
have  your  wish. 

GEORGE. 

And  you  won't  let  me  train  them  as  I  believe 
right  ? 

LUCY. 

You're  not (Hesitates.)    I  can't.     It  would 

be  wrong.     It  would  be  a  sin.     I  can't  sacrifice 
them. 

GEORGE. 

(In  a  strange,  new  voice.)  Then  you'd  better 
take  them  and  go.  They're  legally  mine,  but 
morally  they  belong  to  both  of  us  equally — I 
acknowledge  that.  You  can  take  them — if  that's 
what  your  conscience  tells  you  is  right — and  go 
.  .  .  and  go  ! 

LUCY. 

(Taken  aback  at  the  ultimatum.)  But  only  for 
a  visit — a  long  visit. 


THIS   GENERATION  85 

GEORGE. 

No,   for  ever  !   .    .   .  I'm   disappointed  in  you. 

HARBURN. 

(^4.  little  flustered  and  only  too  anxious  to 
escape.)  There  !  There  !  Then  that's  all  settled. 
You  better  come  to-morrow.  (Looking  round.) 
Nice  and  snug  little  room  you've  got  here,  to  be 
sure.  Good -morning. 

(Re  hurries  out,  kissing  his  daughter. 
GEORGE  sees  him  to  the  door  and 
returns.  LUCY  stands  motionless. 
They  look  at  each  other  for  a  moment 
and  neither  speaks.) 

LUCY. 

The  fire  needs   some   coals. 

(GEORGE  fetches  a  coal-scuttle  from  the  next 
room  and  stokes  up  the  fire,  then  seats 
himself  and  buries  his  head  in  his  hands. 
LUCY  suddenly  comes  to  him,  pauses, 
then  touches  his  shoulder  timidly.) 

LUCY. 

George  .  .  .  you  couldn't  have  meant  what  you 
said — "  for  ever  "  ? 

GEORGE. 

(Looking  up.)     I  did. 


86  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

(Catching  hold  of  him  and  bursting  into  tears.} 
Oh,  George  .  .  .  and  I  love  you  so  ...  you've 
broken  my  heart  ! 

GEOEGE. 

And  my  own.  But  it's  better  so.  Our  paths 
go  opposite  ways.  We  should  never  agree  about 
anything.  (With  the  saddest  voice.)  But  I 
thought  we  should  always  cling  together. 

LUCY. 

So  did  I.  ...  I  want  to  do  right  .  .  .  but 
it's  hard  ! 

GEOEGE. 
So  hard  ! 

LUCY. 

Who'll  look  after  you  when  I  go? 

GEOEGE. 

Laura,  I  suppose. 

LUCY. 

You  won't  like  that. 

GEOEGE. 

I  shall  be  so  wretched  nothing  will  matter  then. 


THIS   GENERATION  87 

LUCY. 

Perhaps  some  day  you'll  change  your  views — 
just  a  little? 

GEOEGE. 
Never  ! 

LUCY. 

The  hope   of   winning   you   back   has   kept   me 
alive. 

GEOEGE. 

I  might  say   the  same. 

LUCY. 

Mayn't  I  hope 

GEOEGE. 

No  !     Give  it  up  ;    we  shall  never  convert  each 
other . 

(The   shop   bell   rings.      GEORGE    goes   into 
the  shop.) 

GEOEGE'S  VOICE. 

No,  we  haven't  got  Society  Scandal.     We  don't 
stock  it.     We  could  get  you  a  copy. 

A  VOICE. 

No,  thanks. 

GEOEGE'S  VOICE. 

Would  you  care  to  look  at  our  picture -frames  ? 


88  THIS   GENERATION 

A  VOICE. 

No.     Do  you  keep  Turf  Tip  cigarettes? 

GEORGE'S  VOICE. 
No. 

A  VOICE. 

Have  you  any  Bluejackets? 

GEORGE. 
No. 

A  VOICE. 

What  sorts  do  you  sell? 

GEORGE'S  VOICE. 
None — at  present. 

A  VOICE. 

Then  you  ought  to. 

GEORGE'S  VOICE. 

You  can  get  them  two  doors  lower  down. 

(LUCY  stands  motionless  all  the  time.} 


END  or  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


THE    THIRD    ACT 


,THE   THIRD  ACT 

SCENE  : — The  large  hall  of  a  (non-political} 
Working  Men's  Club  at  Fulham.  There  is 
a  small  stage  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
brilliantly  lit.  A  loan  collection  of  paintings 
is  hung  on  the  walls.  It  is  a  "  ladies'  night,'' 
and  there  is  a  good-sized  gathering  of  mem- 
bers and  their  friends.  They  are  mostly 
working  men,  and  a  few  have  brought  their 
wives  and  girls.  There  is  a  sprinkling  of 
West  End  people  "  who  have  come  as  '  an 
experience,'  or  with  a  laudable  desire  to 
encourage  the  cause.") 

(They  are  all  seated  facing  the  stage.  There 
are,  however,  a  few  little  tables  at  this 
end  of  the  hall,  at  one  of  which  BAXTER 
and  DICKINSON  have  chairs.) 

(GEORGE  is  discovered  standing  on  the  stage 
and  delivering  a  discourse  on  Brother- 
hood. He  speaks  with  warm  fervour,  as 
one  who  has  a  message  to  deliver.) 

GEORGE. 

It   is   an   utter   mistake   to   say   human   nature 
doesn't  change.     It  is  fluid — always  adapting  itself 

91 


92  THIS   GENERATION 

to  new  conditions  with  imperceptible  fluctuations. 
So  that  as  the  human  race  marches  towards  per- 
fection, it  will  share  in  the  gentle  purification, 
till  at  last  it  transforms  mankind,  and  is  trans- 
figured. 

When  that  day  comes  there  will  be  no  wars 
because  there  are  no  soldiers — no  poverty  because 
there  are  no  riches — no  servitude  because  there 
are  no  masters — and  scarce  any  vice  or  crime 
because  we  shall  have  trained  men  to  be  men, 
not  criminals  !  In  human  nature  lies  the  secret 
of  our  faith,  with  its  promise  of  universal  happi- 
ness and  reconciliation. 

(Murmurs   of   assent.) 

This  isn't  a  set  speech,  still  less  a  sermon. 
It's  just  a  simple  talk  on  Brotherhood.  Don't 
let  us  be  tempted  to  sit  still  with  folded  hands 
dreaming  of  the  good  time  coming,  when  the 
present  idea  of  "  I  "  and  "  mine  "  will  have 
merged  into  "we"  and  "ours."  What  can  we 
do  at  present — now — to  help  on  this  glorious  re- 
birth? We  can  influence  our  neighbours  by  our 
own  fidelity.  We  can  set  an  example  of  strenuous 
service  and  loving  endeavour.  No  day  should 
pass  without  its  quiet  self-sacrifice — its  little 
kindnesses  and  thought  for  others. 

Rivalry,  Enmity — that  spawn  of  Capital  and 
Competition — will  pass  away  when  we  have  slain 
their  monstrous  parents.  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
will  warfare  cease  and  mankind  be  knit  together 
in  brotherhood. 


THIS   GENERATION  93 

Meanwhile,  let  us  at  least  make  a  beginning. 
We  can  be  brotherly  to  all.  (A  Voice: 
"Rothschild?")  Yes,  to  Lord  Eothschild.  And 
like  chivalrous  comrades — give  our  fellows  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt — do  a  good  turn — hold  out  the 
helping  hand. 

Great  changes  come  slowly.  Perhaps  none  of 
us  may  live  to  see  the  Earthly  Paradise.  But  you 
and  I,  meantime,  can  gladden  and  sustain  the 
hearts  around  us.  So  that  through  us  the  grey, 
tired  world  may  have  more  love  and  laughter, 
friendship  and  rest,  and  health  and  beauty,  and 
at  last  lie  down  in  peace. 

(Applause.) 

Let  each  one  of  us  see  that  he,  at  least,  is  con- 
sistent. Don't  let  us  be  depressed.  Never  be 
filled  with  "  the  terrible  doubt  of  appearances." 
Say  rather  with  Whitman  : 

"  I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greeks  and 
Germanic  systems, 

See  the  philosophers  all,  Christian  Churches 
and  tenets,  see, 

Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and  under- 
neath Christ  the  Divine,  I  see 

The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the 
attraction  of  friend  to  friend, 

Of  the  well -married  husband  and  wife,  of 
children  and  parents, 

Of   city  for   city   and   land  for  land." 

(He   comes   down.      There   are   murmurs   of 


94  THIS  GENERATION 

approval   and    applause.      One    or    two 
shake   Mm    by    the   hand.) 

(A  keen  young  CLEEGYMAN  springs  to  his 
feet.  He  speaks  in  a  trained  voice, 
fluently.) 

CLEEGYMAN. 

I  want  to  propose  a  vote  of  thanks  to  our 
friend  for  his  beautiful  address.  It's  this  splended 
faith  of  his  in  the  brotherhood  of  men — no  matter 
their  station,  or  nation,  or  colour,  or  creed — which 
has  made  me  a  Christian  Socialist.  I  know  poli- 
tics are  forbidden  here.  But  I  must  add  this  : 
I  work  in  a  poor  London  parish,  and  when  I  see 
the  sin  and  poverty,  the  shame  and  wretchedness 
festering  there — not  due,  mind  you,  so  much  to  the 
depravity  of  the  victims  as  to  the  economic  condi- 
tions of  the  very  society  which  condemns  them — 
then  I  sayn  "  This  must  be  ended  !  "  The  cruel 
shores  of  to-day  are  strewn  with  human  wreckage. 
We  send  out  lifeboats  now.  But  that  isn't  enough. 
We  must  provide  first-class  ships  for  every  man's 
life -voyage.  If  the  Laws  of  Economics  say 
"  Impossible,"  if  they  come  in  impious  conflict 
with  the  biddings  of  Divine  law — they'll  have 
to  go. 

(Applause.) 

The  world  has  been  ruled  long  enough  by 
Economists.  It  must  be  ruled  in  future  by  the 
Law  of  God.  It  will  never  be  happy  till  it 


THIS  GENERATION  95 

seeks  to  be  reconciled  to  Him,  and  submits  itself 
to  His  loving  guidance. 

(Applause.) 

(He  sits  down,  and  a  WORKING  MAN  rises, 
who  speaks  uncouthly,  with  hesitation, 
but  with  extreme  emphasis.) 

WORKING  MAN. 

I  should  like  to  second  that.  Our  friend  has 
been  talking  about  brotherhood  being  universal. 
I'll  be  brother  to  any  man — even  a  duke — if  he 
gives  me  my  rights.  But  as  long  as  he  keeps 
me  out  of  them — I'm  his  enemy.  I  say  that 
plain  !  •: 

(Loud   applause.) 

We  don't  talk  politics  here — I  know  that  !  (A 
Voice:  "  Why  drag  'em  in,  then?  ")  I  don't !  It 
isn't  politics — it's  better  than  politics — it's  sense — 
when  I  ask  you  who  makes  the  wealth  of  the 
country  ?  We  do — we  working-men  !  Have  we 
got  it  ?  Not  likely  !  I'll  tell  you  what  capital 
is  !  It's  the  honey  that  labour  stores  up.  The 
rich  have  stolen  our  hives.  But  we're  going  to 
get  'em  back  soon,  and  have  a  lick  of  sweetness 
ourselves. 

(He  sits  down  amid  immense  applause.) 

GEORGE. 

I  thank  our  friends  for  the  kind  way  they've 
spoken  about  my  faith.  (Playfully.)  The  last 


96  THIS   GENERATION 

speaker  is  only  a  half-timer  now.  We'll  make 
him  join  our  Union  soon. 

(Laughter.) 

I  should  like  to  add  this.  Men  are  too  much 
afraid  of  speaking  out  their  true  thoughts  for 
fear  of  being  considered  quixotic,  or  hackneyed, 
perhaps,  or  priggish.  Don't  let  us  hesitate  to 
be  sincere  and  simple.  Fear  paradox,  not  plati- 
tude. The  thing  we  ought  most  to  mistrust  is 
brilliant  banter  !  Why  don't  we  show  more 
loving -kindness,  more  charity,  to  the  world 
and  to  each  other?  We  must — if  Socialism  is 
ever  to  conquer ! 

(He  sits  down.) 
BAXTER. 

(To  DICKINSON — still  seated  at  the  table.) 
That's  a  nasty  one  for  some  of  our  friends.  (Calls 
to  a  WAITER -BOY  who  is  passing.)  Boy,  bring 
me  some  cocoa.  (To  DICKINSON.)  You'll  have 
a  cup?  (To  BOY.)  Another! 

(The  BOY  goes.  The  WORKMAN  who  has 
spoken  joins  another  man  at  the  next 
table.  They  talk  together,  ivhile  the 
other  couple  are  also  conversing.) 

CHAIRMAN. 

(Rising  and  announcing.)  Two  of  our  younger 
members  will  now  give  us  an  exhibition  of  the 
noble  art  of  self-defence. 

(Two  LADS  take  off  their  overcoats  and  go 


THIS   GENERATION  97 

upon  the  stage — stripped  to  the  usual 
costume.  Their  backers  follow.  A 
boxing  match  takes  place.) 


DICKINSON. 

(Not  watching  the  stage.)  He  spoke  well,  don't 
you  think? 

BAXTER. 

Not  bad  at  all  !  I  liked  it.  It's  not  business, 
of  course.  But  that  kind  of  Ruskinian  rhetoric 
is  valuable  in  its  way — it  stimulates  !  His  views 
are  too  extreme  for  me.  That  idea  of  a  shop  was 
fine,  though  it  was  bound  to  be  a  failure.  Evolu- 
tion works  in  social  institutions,  as  it  works  in 
Nature.  A  policy  of  upheaval  does  more  harm 
than  good — it  disappoints  !  Still,  I  must  say 
he  lives  up  to  what  he  preaches,  which  few  of 
us  do.  We're  filled  with  schemes  for  spending  the 
money  of  our  richer  neighbours.  But,  I've 
noticed,  we're  not  so  fond  of  yielding  our  own. 

DICKINSON. 

Most  of  us  have  so  little  to  yield. 

BAXTER. 

He's  doing  splended  work,  and  become  quite 
a  leader.  Have  you  seen  the  paper  he's  started 
since  you've  been  away — The  Torch  ?  It's  creating 
quite  a  sensation . 

7 


98  THIS   GENERATION 

DICKINSON. 

I  think  at  last  we're  saturating  all  classes  with 
our  ideas.  Why,  you  even  find  smart  women 
going  round  in  motors  and  chattering  about  incre- 
ment and  the  death  of  laissez-faire. 

(The,  cocoa  comes.} 
BAXTER. 

We've  captured  the  Unions  and  the  Labour 
Party.  It  won't  be  long  before  we've  gripped 
the  whole  machinery  of  government.  My  only 
fear  is,  we're  going  too  fast.  It  would  be  dis- 
astrous to  dislocate  the  whole  framework  of 
society — too  suddenly.  That  is  why  we  mustn't 
try  to  abolish  Capital.  It  will  gradually  dry  up 
under  the  warmth  of  our  taxation. 

DICKINSON. 

(Lightly.)  It's  rather  humorous,  isn't  it, 
watching  the  two  parties  drift  to  their  doom,  while 
we,  "  with  smiling  jaws,  welcome  the  little  fishes 
in"? 

BAXTER. 

Yes.  The  Tories  are  played  out  and  done 
for.  Tariff  Reform  is  their  death-rattle. 

DICKINSON. 

As  for  our  dear  friends — ithe  Liberal  enemy — 
it's  not  that  they're  hypocritical — they're  super- 
annuated. So  long  as  they  can  spout  the  old 


THIS   GENERATION  99 

catch -words  and  sport  the  old  trade -marks,  they're 
too  cock-a-hoop  to  see  the  plank  they're  walking. 
And  they've  got  happy  capitalists  among  them 
still — it's  amazing  ! 

BAXTER. 

They  haven't  even  the  wits  to  see  the  irony  of 
trotting  out  their   silly  old   cackle — Peace 

DICKINSON. 

(Interrupting.)     With  their  naval  expenditure  ! 

BAXTER. 

"  Retrenchment " 

DICKINSON. 

With   their  jolly   Budgets  ! 

BAXTER. 

"  Reform  "  ! 

DICKINSON. 

When  they  don't  in  the  least  know  what  they 
want. 

(The  CLERGYMAN  and  one  of  the  Committee 
are  wandering  around,  engaged  in  an 
animated  conversation.) 

CLERGYMAN. 

It's  the  Unemployed  Question  that  is  unbearable 
— it's  heart-rending  ! 


100  THIS   GENERATION 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

But,  my  dear  sir — if  you  abolish  all  the  rich, 
there'll  be  more  unemployed  than  ever. 

CLERGYMAN. 

That's  a  stale  fallacy.  The  State  must  keep 
them — and  decently,  too  ! 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

But  where's  the  money  to  come  from? 

CLERGYMAN. 

When  the  State's  resumed  possession  of  the 
land,  and  buildings,  and  wealth  of  the  country, 
there'll  be  more  than  enough  to  go  round. 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

(Waxing  warm.)  But  capital's  fluid,  and 
wealth  is  continually  being  destroyed,  and  has 
to  be  reproduced — or  it  melts  away. 

CLERGYMAN. 

(Eagerly.)  Ah,  now  you're  talking  like  a 
Political  Economist.  We  don't  argue  with  False 
Prophets  of  Baal — we  overwhelm  them. 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

(Good-naturedly.)  Come  and  look  at  the 
pictures.  They're  a  loan  collection — the  best 
modern  work. 

(They  move  off.) 

DICKINSON. 

What  do  you  think  of  Votes  for  Women? 


THIS   GENERATION  101 

BAXTER. 

I  suppose  it'll  come.  I  advocate  it  because 
I  don't  think  it  can  harm  us.  Women  are  all 
right,  unless  they're  ratepayers  or  property  - 
holders.  And  those  are  fish  we  shan't  even  have 
to  swallow.  The  other  fish  will  have  eaten  'em 
first. 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

(Talking  to  his  friend  at  the  table.}  I've  been 
a  Liberal  all  my  life,  and  good  old  Gladstone's 
good  enough  for  me. 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

He  ain't  a  patch  on  Lloyd  George.  He  never 
told  us  we  was  as  good  as  dukes. 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

He  was  a  sly  old  hand,  he  was  !  If  he'd  lived 
till  now  he'd  have  showed  you  you  was  better 
than  dukes.  He'd  have  abolished  'em  long  ago. 

DICKINSON. 

Democracy's  played  out,  of  course. 

BAXTER. 

But  keep  the  word  !  People  have  always  con- 
fused words  with  things — Plato  pointed  that  out — 
and  they're  much  more  frightened  by  names  than 
facts.  That's  why  I  never  say  "Socialist"  if 


102  THIS  GENERATION 

I  can  use  "  Progressive."     The  word's  much  safer 
-it  lulls  ! 

(A  fashionably  dressed  woman  in  semi- 
evening  dress  comes  down  the  room, 
attended  by  the  COMMITTEEMAN.  She 
turns  to  the  WAITER -BOY.) 

WOMAN. 

Would  you  kindly  call  my  motor — Lady 
Dorothy  Clarage's  motor  ! 

(The  BOY  goes.  She  turns  rather  gushingly 
to  her  companion.) 

Thank  you  so  much  for  such  a  charming  even- 
ing. How  quaint  and  delightful  everything  is  ! 
I'm  not  surprised  that  Mr.  Wells  is  an  optimist. 
What  a  sad  story  about  that  tobacconist  man  and 
his  tiresome  wife — so  silly  of  her,  I  think  !  Why, 
I  should  simply  love  to  tuck  into  a  cosy  little 
shop.  I've  always  longed  to  camp  in  a  slum  ! 
(To  the  BOY,  returning.)  The  motor — thanks  ! 
Good -night. 

(She  goes.) 
DICKINSON. 

Think  of  the  children's  physique  and  their 
stunted  sense  of  beauty.  The  State  should  put  up 
a  life-sized  statue  of  a  Greek  athlete  in  every 
school  in  the  kingdom.  It  would  be  a  model  for 
the  children  to  live  up  to. 

BAXTER. 

A  little  premature,  I'm  afraid  !  They'd  better 
look  at  the  children's  bodies  first  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  103 

DICKINSON. 

It  would  give  the  poor  things  a  whiff  of  Greece 
at  any  rate. 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

I  ain't  a  peace -at -any -price  man.  But  a 
bloated  fleet  is  bluster — it's  kept  up  so  that  the 
aristocracy  can  bully  peaceful  neighbours.  I  hate 
all  this  militarism  and  patriotic  rot.  I'm  agin'  the 
Territorials . 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

I  dun'  know  !  We  must  have  something,  I 
s'pose.  They  ain't  too  military  to  look  at.  I'm 
not  afraid  of  their  shooting  too  straight. 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

(With  sly  acuteness.)  Ah  !  it's  the  officers. 
They  want  what  they  call  "  discipline."  It's  their 
name  for  swank.  We  won't  'ave  it.  We'll  'ave 
a  people's  army  who'll  elect  their  own  officers  from 
among  themselves. 

DICKINSON. 

I  haven't  seen  Tremayne  since  I  came  back 
from  America.  Has  he  got  his  sister  with  him 
still  ? 

BAXTER. 

No,  they  didn't  get  on.  I  think  she  found  that 
after  all  "  her  soul's  adventures  among  master- 
pieces," it  was  better  to  live  alone. 


104  THIS   GENERATION 

DICKINSON. 

Unfortunate  affair  that  was  with  the  wife  !  I 
always  thought  she'd  stick  to  him. 

BAXTER. 

She  wanted  the  ordinary  thing,  of  course — three 
sitting-rooms,  a  cheque-book,  and  church  on 
Sunday  !  She  didn't  mean  her  boy  to  be  brought 
up  as  John  the  Baptist.  Now  her  father's 
dead,  and  she's  got  all  the  money,  she's  awfully 
anxious  to  make  it  up.  Between  ourselves,  my 
wife's  bringing  her  here  to-night. 

DICKINSON. 

You  don't  say  so  ! 

BAXTER. 

I  shouldn't  think  it  will  come  to  much. 

DICKINSON. 

I  don't  know.  It's  a  pretty  problem.  As 
far  as  talk  goes,  we're  all  consistent,  of  course  ! 
But  when  it  comes  to  living  the  life,  the  old, 
inherited,  social  forces  are  awfully  strong.  George 
is  half  conscience,  the  other  half  instinct  ;  and 
he's  very  fond  of  her. 

(GEORGE  strolls  up  and  greets  them.) 
GEORGE. 

(To  DICKINSON.)  How  are  you,  Dickey?  I 
haven't  seen  you  since  you  got  back  from  America. 
How  did  you  like  it? 


THIS   GENERATION  105 

DICKINSON. 

Not  much  !  They've  no  idea  of  Collectivism 
there.  It's  all  hustle  and  grab.  As  for  the 
"  larger  latitude  "  in  life  and  art,  they're  early 
Christian — simply  early  Christian.  Their 
prudishness  is  positively  pre -Renaissance  ! 
They'd  hardly  look  at  my  work.  They  wanted 
to  put  a  fig-leaf  on  my  statue  !  (With  a  change 
of  voice.')  And  how  are  you  getting  on?  How's 
the  shop  ? 

GEORGE. 

I  gave  it  up.  It  seemed  to  me  I  was  doing 
as  much  harm  as  ever,  in  a  more  subtle  way,  by 
selling  the  halfpenny  Press — corrupting  minds 
instead  of  bodies  !  Even  then  I  couldn't  make 
the  place  pay  without  every  sort  of  rubbish. 
(With  a  touch  of  ironic  humour.)  It  nearly 
came  to  my  having  to  sell  our  cigarettes  again — 
this  time  retail,  at  a  penny  a  packet  !  So  now 
I'm  devoting  my  time  to  public  work — writing 
and  speaking.  (He  calls.)  Boy,  a  cup  of  coffee! 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

What  we've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  on  striking 
for  shorter  hours,  and  then  strike  for  higher  wages. 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

Ain't  we  doing  that  now? 


106  THIS   GENERATION 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

Too  timid  !  You'll  never  get  something  for 
nothing  at  that  rate.  Arbitration's  all  rot  unless 
it's  fair. 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

You  mean — goes  our  way. 

FIRST  WORKMAN. 

Of  course  !     The  bosses  must  give  in,  anyhow. 

SECOND  WORKMAN. 

Peaceful  picketing  !  .  .  .  (The  humour  of  the 
idea  so  overcomes  them,  it  leaves  them  speechless 
with  laughter.) 

BAXTER. 

(Watching  the  performance.)  I  wonder  if 
we're  really  "  bringing  a  ray  of  sunshine  into 
these  people's  lives,"  as  the  phrase  goes? 

GEORGE. 

At  least  we're  doing  good.     Every  little  helps. 

DICKINSON. 

We  ought  to  give  them  the  best  of  everything — 
modern,  emancipated  art  !  The  pictures'll  do — 
some  of  them  are  quite  advanced.  But  I'm  not  so 
sure  about  the  entertainment !  Why  don't  they  put 
on  a  Shaw  play  instead  of  these  grandmotherly 
sentimental  songs? 


THIS   GENERATION  107 

GEORGE, 

The  people  like  homely  sentiment  !  What  they 
really  want  is  variety,  and  comic  picture-palaces. 

DICKINSON. 

(With  gay  irresponsibility.)  I'd  make  them 
sit  up  with  variety.  I'd  stimulate  their  sluggish 
wits  !  This  is  a  private  club.  Wouldn't  it  be 
fun  to  have  a  programme  entirely  made  up  of 
things  that  wouldn't  do  for  the  Censor  or  County 
Council  ? 

GEORGE . 

Your  tongue  runs  away  with  you,  Dickey  !  In 
questions  of  decency,  these  people  put  their  so- 
called  betters  to  shame.  They're  far  more 
particular. 

DICKINSON. 

Decency — what's  that?  Merely  a  matter  of 
habit.  We're  too  conservative  ! 

BAXTER. 

You're  right.  The  Censor  strangles  all  serious 
dra;matic  art.  This  is  the  very  place  to  give  it 
a  chance. 

DICKINSON. 
Hear,  hear  ! 

(The  BOY  brings  the  coffee  to  GEORGE.) 


108  THIS   GENERATION 

CHAIRMAN. 

(Rises  and  announces.)  The  last  item  on  the 
programme  is  a  pianoforte  solo  by  Miss  Greville. 
I  must  ask  as  many  of  our  friends  as  possible 
to  remain,  as  we  are  going  to  have  a  great  musical 
treat. 

(A  Lady  goes  up  to  the  small  cottage  piano 
and  begins  to  play  a  conventional,  florid 
piece.  This  is  the  signal  for  a  general 
break-up.  A  few  remain  seated.  But 
most  people  rise,  move  about,  and  greet 
their  friends.  Some  begin  to  leave, 
others  look  at  the  pictures.  The  COM- 

MITTEEMAN    comes    down    to     BAXTER'S 

table.     They  rise  and  greet  him.) 

COMMITTEEMAN . 

(To  BAXTER  and  GEORGE.)  You're  both  on 
the  Committee,  aren't  you? 

(They  nod.    DICKINSON  strolls  away.) 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

We've  had  a  very  unpleasant  occurrence. 
Young  Gwotkin  went  off  yesterday  with  all  the 
cash. 

GEORGE . 

(Horrified.)     Impossible  ! 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

We  didn't  find  it  out  till  this  morning.     We  put 


THIS   GENERATION  109 

on  the  police  at  once.     But  they  think  he's  got 
off — the  Continent  probably. 

(MRS.  BAXTER  and  LUCY  enter  quietly. 
They  move  up  the  side  of  the  room, 
apparently  looking  at  the  pictures,  but 
really  scrutinizing  the  seats.  After  a 
minute  MRS.  BAXTER  is  seen  to  indi- 
cate GEORGE  to  her  companion.} 

GEORGE . 

(Much  distressed.)  Tom — a  thief  !  Isn't  it 
awful  !  It's  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  influ- 
enced him  better.  I  should  have  helped  him 
to  master  his  faults.  He  was  filled  with  noble 
ideas.  But  he  couldn't  stick  to  anything.  He 
was  weak  and  lazy — he'd  no  grit.  If  I'd  been 
more  consistent  I  might  have  made  him  a  sounder 
chap.  I  did  try,  but  all  my  efforts  seem  to  fail. 

BAXTER. 

(Kindly.)  Some  lads  are  hopeless.  You  can't 
alter  them,  do  what  you  will  ! 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

But  the  worst  of  it — he's  gone  off  with  nearly 
forty  pounds.  The  Club  mustn't  lose  it.  Some 
of  us  will  have  to  make  it  up. 

GEORGE . 

(Eagerly.)  I'll  pay  !  It's  the  least  I  can  do. 
I  got  him  the  post  here.  Of  course,  I'm 
responsible  ! 


110  THIS   GENERATION 

COMMITTEEMAN. 

It's  very  good  of  you.  That  relieves  us  of  a 
great  anxiety.  We  hardly  knew  what  to  propose. 

BAXTER. 

But,  George — can  you  afford  it? 

GEORGE. 

(Quite  upset.)  No,  I  can't — I  forgot !  I 
haven't  even  the  cash  at  present.  I'll  work  and 
save.  I've  got  a  hundred  a  year.  You  shall 
have  the  money  in  instalments.  (Breaking  out.) 
It's  all  this  hateful  money  !  When  will  the  world 
be  purged  of  it  ! 

BAXTER. 

Not  in  our  time,  at  any  rate.  So  let's  make 
the  best  of  what  we've  got. 

GEORGE. 

It  tempted  the  boy  to  ruin.  And  now  the 
want  of  it  prevents  my  doing  the  honourable 
thing.  It's  the  curse  of  all  of  us  ! 

BAXTER. 

(Soothingly.)  Never  mind.  Don't  take  it  to 
heart  !  You're  not  responsible  for  the  young 
blackguard.  You're  too  kind-hearted,  George — 
you  don't  know  human  nature. 


THIS   GENERATION  111 

GEORGE. 

I  don't  !  I've  always  tried  to  believe  in  it 
instead  of  suspecting  or  spying.  And  bitterly 
I've  been  punished  !  Who  am  I  to  stand  up 
and  preach  about  brotherly  influence  and  ex- 
ample— as  though  I  thought  myself  a  new  St. 
Francis  ! 

BAXTER. 

Why  not?  You  have  the  same  unworldly  spirit 
— I  can't  say  more  to  your  face,  though  I  should 
like  to. 

(The  Member  of  Committee  tactfully  moves 
away.} 

GEORGE. 

Ah,  don't  say  that  !  It  sounds  like  mockery. 
I  once  boasted  to  my  wife  that  I  had  become 
a  fool  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  to  help  my  fellow- 
creatures.  I  seem  to  have  made  a  fool  of  myself 
all  round  ! 

(The  two  boxing  lads  are  wandering  along 
vaguely,  looking  at  the  pictures.  They 
are  naturally  somewhat  puzzled  at  Art's 
latest  blossom.) 

FIRST   LAD. 

They  say  all  these  'ere  pictures  are  high  art — 
hung  up  to  elevate  our  minds — not  likely  ! 


112  THIS  GENERATION 

SECOND  LAD. 

They're  to.o  top-hole  for  me  !  I  can't  make 
head  or  tail  of  'em.  They  ain't  got  no  colour — 
and  what  there  is  has  run.  The  chaps  have  put 
in  too  much  turps.  I  could  spot  that — 'cause  I'm 
a  painter.  Give  me  a  picture  of  a  racecourse 
with  the  jocks  up  and  the  horses  running  ! 

FIRST   LAD. 

I  like  a  classy  seaside  bit — like  the  post -cards 
— "  I've  caught  the  dears  bathing,"  or  "  How  can 
I  cuddle  both?"  That's  the  picture  to  bring  it 
home  to  you. 

(They  pass  on.) 

BAXTER. 

Have  a  seat  back  in  our  taxi? 

GEORGE. 

Many   thanks  ! 

BAXTER. 

You'll  find  me  somewhere  about.  My  wife 
ought  to  be  here  by  now — she  wants  to  see  the 
pictures.  (He  looks  round.)  Ah,  there  she  is  ! 
(He  slips  off.) 

(The  music  stops.  The  footlights  are 
lowered.  People  begin  to  leave  fast. 
GEORGE  looks  round  and  sees  his  wife. 
They  gaze  at  one  another  for  a  long 
moment  and  then  she  advances  timidly.) 


THIS   GENERATION  113 

GEORGE. 
Lucy  ! 

LUCY. 

Ah,  George  !  (She  looks  at  him  very  wist- 
fully.) 

(A  moment's  pause.) 
LUCY. 

I  was  asked — to  see  the  pictures.  I  thought 
...  I  was  told  I  should  find  you  here  ! 

GEORGE. 

Ah! 

(A  moment's  pause.) 
LUCY. 

Have  you  heard — father's  dead?  I'm  staying 
on  in  his  house  for  the  present. 

GEORGE. 

Yes,  I  heard  that.  I  didn't  write.  It  seemed 
a  mockery. 

LUCY. 

He  left  half  his  money  to  Clara  and  me,  half 
to  the  children.  They'll  be  very  rich  when  they 
grow  up.  I'm  afraid  you'll  he  sorry  for  that. 

GEORGE . 

(Eagerly.)  How  are  they?  Tell  me  all  about 
them.  I  think  of  them  day  and  night. 

8 


114  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

(Recovering  courage.}  They're  quite  well,  and 
growing  fast.  Harold  has  gone  to  a  preparatory 
school  at  Reigate.  Only  the  best  people  send 
their  sons  there.  They  look  after  the  boys  and 
make  them  thoroughly  happy.  He  enjoys  it  im- 
mensely. Millie  has  a  governess. 

GEOEGE. 

Have  they  begun  to  forget  their  father? 

LUCY. 

Oh  no  !  They're  constantly  asking  when 
daddy's  coming  back.  I  had  to  tell  them  you're 
so  busy — devoting  your  life  to  the  good  of  others 
—you  hadn't  time  for  us.  It  sounded  odd,  some- 
how. But  I  had  to  say  something,  and  I  wasn't 
going  to  tell  a  lie. 

GEOKGE. 

Quite    right.      Didn't    they    think    it    strange? 

LUCY. 

They  can't  understand  it.  I  can't  understand 
it.  No  one  can  understand  it. 

GEORGE. 

How  should  they?  But  you  must  know  it's 
my  love  for  the  children — my  overwhelming  love 
for  them — that  makes  me  keep  away.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  be  with  them  and  see  them — as  I  think— 
corrupted . 


THIS   GENERATION  115 

LUCY. 

Corrupted  ! 

GEORGE . 

Yes — corrupted  by  wealth  and  self-indulgence. 
If  I  saw  them  again  I  don't  think  I  could  tear 
myself  away . 

LUCY. 

Then  come  and  see  them  ! 

GEORGE. 

(With  almost  a  cry.)  My  children — I  want 
my  children — and  you  !  That's  why  I  daren't — I 
mustn't  !  I,  too,  should  be  corrupted.  (With  a 
sudden  change  of  manner.)  You  will  do  me  a 
kindness,  Lucy,  I  know,  though  I  oughtn't  to 
ask  it. 

LUCY. 

Don't  put  it  like  that.  (Eagerly.)  Ask  me — 
ask  me  !  I  want  to  be  asked  to  help  you. 

GEORGE. 

Young  Gwotkin  has  stolen  forty  pounds  from 
here.  I  want  you  to  lend  me  the  money. 

LUCY. 

Ah,    don't    say    "  lend,"    George — it  hurts    my 

feelings.      You    know   that    everything  I   have   is 

yours.      The    more   you    ask    for,    the  happier    I. 
shall  be. 


116  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

Yes,  dear — I  know  !  I'll  take  it  as  a  gift 
because  I  feel  that  will  please  you  most.  But 
oh,  the  irony  of  money  !  Money  !  One  might 
as  well  denounce  the  air  one  breathes  ! 

LUCY. 

You're  just  like  your  old  self,  George — you 
haven't  changed  a  bit. 

GEOEGE. 

Yes,  I  have  !  I  mistrust  our  social  order  more 
than  ever.  I  preach  the  Downfall  of  Capital. 
But  it's  so  hard  to  make  one's  views  work  with 
life. 

LUCY. 

Do  you  know  why  I  came  here?  (Timidly.) 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  come  back  to  us . 

GEOEGE . 

(Almost  imploring.)  Don't  tempt  me,  Lucy — 
you  mustn't  ! 

LUOY. 

(Passionately,  catching  his  coat.)  Oh,  George, 
George,  come  back  !  (She  looks  round.)  There 
are  people  still  here.  (Rapidly,  in  a  low  voice.) 
The  children  want  you — I  want  you  ;  I  can't  live 
without  you  !  When  I  wake  and  find  you're 


THIS  GENERATION  117 

not  by   my  side,   there's   a  gnawing   pain  in   my 
heart.     And   I  wake  so   early  every  morning  ! 

GEORGE . 

Hush,  Lucy — I  can't  bear  any  more.  I  want 
you — and  miss  you,  dear — as  much  as  you  miss 
me.  But  I've  set  my  face  against  worldly  things. 
I'm  making  a  great  endeavour.  I  talk  about 
sacrifice.  The  only  one  that  counts  is  the  sacrifice 
of  self.  No,  Lucy — it  wouldn't  be  consistent  ! 

LUCY. 

Don't  be  consistent,  then. 

GEORGE . 

You  talk  as  though  it  were  easy  to  say  "  No." 
How  little  you  understand  !  It's  almost  killing 
me. 

LUCY. 

Tolstoy  was  as  consistent  as  any  one  could  be. 
And  they  say  the  Countess  kept  the  money. 

GEORGE. 

He  was  in  a  false  position.  He  tried  to  stifle 
conscience.  He  couldn't.  He  had  to  leave  home 
at  last. 

LUCY. 

I'm  not  thinking  of  him  at  all.  I'm  thinking 
of  his  poor,  broken-hearted  wife  and  children. 


118  THIS   GENERATION 

You  idealists  at  times  can  be  very  cruel  to  your 
nearest . 

GEORGE . 

(Flinching.}     Oh,  don't  say  that ! 

LUCY. 

You  shall    work    in    the    fields,    or    sweep    the 

streets,  or    anything    else    disagreeable,    if    you'd 

like  to.  I  won't  say  a  word.     Only  come  ! 

GEORGE . 

It  isn't  that  !  I  don't  wish  to  spend  my  time 
in  manual  labour.  But  I  do  try  to  live  a  harm- 
less life  that  should  help  others — not  injure  them. 
I'm  getting  an  influence  over  men.  I'm  convert- 
ing them  to  a  higher  life.  I  couldn't  give  that 
up.  I  mustn't  judge  your  father.  But  his  money 
was  made  in  a  way  I  think  dishonest.  If  I  came 
I  should  have  to  share  it.  And  I  ought  not  to. 
(Beginning  to  waver.}  But  it's  a  great  tempta- 
tion. 

LUCY. 

(With  passionate  pleading.)  Oh,  George,  think 
for  once  of  me  and  the  children  !  Don't  desert 
us  !  You  think  too  much  about  money. 

GEORGE. 
I  wonder  I 

(The  room  is  now  empty.  The  WAITER -BOY 
has  switched  off  all  the  electric  lights 
except  two.  He  comes  up  to  them.) 


THIS   GENERATION  119 

BOY. 

It's  closing  time,  please. 

GEORGE. 

Yes,  of  course. 

LUCY. 

Aren't  you  coming  home? 

GEORGE. 

(Torn  in  two.}     I  can't  !     It  would  be  disloyal. 

LUCY. 

(With  infinite  sadness.)     Oh,   George  ! 

GEORGE . 

(Hastily.)    How  are  you  going  back ? 

LUCY. 

I've  got  the  carriage  here.  The  footman's  out- 
side. 

(They  go  out  together.  BAXTER  and  his 
wife,  who  have  been  discreetly  in  the 
background ,  come  down . ) 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

I  hope  he's  returning.  I'm  glad  for  her  sake. 
It  will  make  her  much  happier.  But  as  far  as 
he  is  concerned 


120  THIS  GENERATION 

BAXTER. 

Oh  !  it'll  make  him  happier  too.  He's  not 
like  his  sister.  He  has  plenty  of  heart — too  much, 
perhaps  !  He's  too  quixotic.  It's  a  mistake  to 
be  over -conscientious.  I  suppose  he  could  talk 
his  wife  round  a  bit.  (To  the  BOY.)  Please 
call  a  taxi . 

(The  BOY  goes.) 
MRS.  BAXTER. 

She's  conventional  to  the  finger-tips.  He'll  not 
convert  her  !  She  can  "  pay  the  piper  now,  and 
means  to  call  the  tune."  He  won't  have  a  look 
in  about  the  children.  Still,  with  a  little  affec- 
tionate tact  he  might  wheedle  out  some  of  the  cash 
for  the  Cause.  We  need  it  badly. 

BAXTER. 

He  would  hardly  like  to  do  that,  I'm  afraid. 
He  doesn't  consider  it  was  honestly  made. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

All  the  more  reason  to  see  that  some  of  it's 
honestly  spent. 

(GEORGE  returns  in  a  state  of  extreme  emo- 
tional  tension.) 

GEORGE. 

She  asked  me  to  come  back.   ...  I  refused  ! 

BAXTER. 

Isn't  it  rather  a  pity? 


THIS   GENERATION  121 

GEORGE. 

(Bursting  out.)  Kather  a  pity  !  The  pain's 
so  great  I  can't  speak  of  it !  (With  a  change 
of  voice.)  But  how  can  I  go?  It  would  mean 
conniving  at  all  I  denounce.  It  would  mean 
sharing  her  father's  plunder.  Wouldn't  it  be  dis- 
loyal to  my  life's  work  ;  a  cowardly  desertion  ; 
another  lost  leader? 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

(Facing  the  situation  as  a  practical  woman.) 
Not  at  all — if  you  use  your  Will  Power  and  keep 
your  head  !  Of  course,  you  could  still  be  an  active 
worker. 

GEORGE. 

(Catching  at  a  happy  straw.)  Could  I?  She 
told  me  I  thought  too  much  of  money.  Perhaps  I 
do.  (Hesitating.)  Isn't  my  hatred  of  worldly 
prosperity  growing  morbid?  (He  begins  to 
waver.)  We  talk  so  much  of  the  Crime  of 
Capital :  the  very  idea  gets  on  our  brains.  It 
kills  all  sense  of  proportion.  It  needs  a  rest. 
Why  should  I  give  up  everything  to  "  our  little 
sister,  Poverty"?  Nobody  else  would.  Why 
should  I? 

BAXTER. 

Why  indeed?  If  you  want  a  bit  of  comfort, 
don't  forget  there  are  ways  in  which  a  big  estab- 
lishment does  help  us — swell  entertainments  and 


122  THIS   GENERATION 

lots  of  grub  !     It  catches  on  with  a  certain  class 
and  gives  one  a  chance  to  talk  them  round. 

GEORGE . 

(Unheeding.}  I  told  her  I  couldn't  return 
.  .  .  and  I  asked  her  for  money  !  The  humilia- 
tion, the  cruelty  of  it,  is  burning  my  soul. 

BAXTER. 

You    might    change   your   mind. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

You  better  !  You'd  better  go  back  at  once  instead 
of  shilly-shallying.  You  know  you'll  do  it  sooner 
or  later.  After  all,  it's  the  natural  thing  ! 

GEORGE . 

It's  the  natural  thing !  I  believe  it's  false 
pride  that's  holding  me  back. 

MRS.  BAXTER. 

I've  no  doubt  of  it. 

BAXTER. 

I  should  give  her  a  chance,  if  I  were  you. 

GEORGE. 

(With  a  burst  of  determination.)  I  will  !  I'll 
give  love  a  chance.  I  must  go — I  will  go  !  I 
can't  live  without  her  and  the  kids.  (Delightedly.) 
It's  nature.  Don't  tell  me  it  isn't  right.  I'm  so 
happy — it  must  be  !  I'll  surprise  them  to- 
morrow . 


THIS  GENERATION  123 

MRS.  BAXTEE. 

Only  don't  get  perverted.  Don't  drop  The 
Torch. 

GEORGE. 

Never  !  Love  shall  make  me  all  the  stronger. 
I'll  redouble  my  efforts.  People  will  say  she's 
bought  me.  I  don't  mind  what  they  say  !  People 
are  fools.  I  don't  care  a  rap  for  appearances. 
(Snapping  his  fingers.)  No.  Not  that! 

THE  BOY. 

(Returning.)     The  taxi's  here. 

(They  go   out.     The   BOY   switches  out   the 
last  two  lights.) 


END  or   THE   THIRD  ACT. 


THE    FOURTH    ACT 


THE    FOURTH    ACT. 

SCENE  : — The  drawing-room  of  the  late  MR. 
HARBURN'S  house  in  South  Kensington.  Its 
furniture  is  florid  and  pompous,  such  as  an 
expensive  upholsterer  would  have  provided 
about  1880.  The  fireplace,  with  an  elabor- 
ate overmantel,  is  opposite.  LUCY  and  CLARA 
are  seated  in  front  of  it,  in  elaborate  evening- 
mourning  dress,  for  the  hour  is  after  dinner, 
and  the  evening,  Sunday.  LUCY  looks  bloom- 
ing. There  is  something  in  her  air  which 
suggests  self-assurance  and  prosperity.  She 
is  evidently  no  longer  a  pale  and  patient 
wife,  but  a  woman  of  some  importance.) 

CLARA. 

George  is  a  long  time  over  his  wine  ! 

LUCY. 

He  doesn't  drink  wine. 

CLARA. 

Well,  then,  his  coffee — or  whatever  it  is  he  does 
drink  !  May  the  fire  be  made  up?  (LUCY  rings.) 
He  wasn't  dressed  for  dinner — is  he  going  out? 

127 


128  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

No,  I  don't  think  so.  He  often  doesn't  change 
in  the  evening. 

CLARA. 

(Emphatically.}  Then  I  should  make  him, 
dear — always.  The  servants  must  think  it  so  odd  ! 

LUCY. 

The  servants  must  think  what  they  please.  I 
promised  not  to  worry  him  when  he  returned. 
I  never  suggest  or  complain  of  anything.  His 
coming  back  has  made  all  the  difference  to  my 
life.  I'm  happy  now — because  we  understand  each 
other  at  last.  About  the  children  I'm  quite  firm, 
but  in  other  respects  we  agree  to  differ. 

CLARA. 

You  don't  see  too  much  of  each  other — that's  the 
secret  ! 

LUCY. 

(Protesting.}  Don't  be  cynical,  Clara  !  I  wish 
I  saw  more  of  him — much  more  !  That's  my  one 
disappointment.  He's  constantly  out  at  his  meet- 
ings, and  so  on.  He's  often  out  four  or  five 
evenings  a  week.  I  can't  get  him  to  go  to  parties 
with  me — I  wish  he  would  ! 

CLARA. 

I  should  think  so,  indeed  !  it  looks  so  extra- 
ordinary !  One  comfort — he  doesn't  bring  his 
crazy  set  home  as  he  used  to  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  129 

LUCY. 

I  believe  he  sees  them  all  in  the  study.  I 
shouldn't  consent  to  receive  them  here. 

CLAEA. 

He  must  be  getting  more  sensible.  He's  been 
eating  a  little  meat  lately.  That's  a  good  sign. 
I  think  you're  going  to  conquer. 

LUCY. 

(Earnestly.)  It's  not  a  case  of  conquering, 
Clara.  I  want  to  make  him  contented  here.  I 
want  him  to  feel  our  house  is  home. 

CLAEA. 

Does  he  still  run  that  dreadful  rag? 

LUCY. 

I  never  inquire. 

(The  BUTLEE  enters  solemnly.) 

LUCY. 

Would  you  tell  Henry  to  make  up  the  fire? 

BUTLEE. 

Yes,  madam. 

(He  goes.) 

LUCY. 

We  never  touch  on  dangerous  topics  nowadays. 
It  is  much  better.  We  get  on  beautifully. 

9 


130  THIS  GENERATION 

But  for  all  that,  I  don't  believe  his  views  have 
altered  one  bit.  I  dread  his  influence  on  the 
children.  I  don't  want  him  to  see  too  much 
of  them.  That's  why  I  hope  to  be  able  to  send 
Harold  visiting  in  the  holidays. 

CLARA. 

I   should    think   the   memory  of   that   dreadful 

Board  School  and  beastly  shop  in  which  you  all 

starved  would  last  a  lifetime.  I  think  you've 
been  wonderfully  patient  ! 

LUCY. 

(Warmly.)  Oh,  don't  say  that !  He's  the  best 
of  husbands.  His  fault  is  he's  too  unselfish. 
And  some  of  his  views  are  splendid.  They're  like 
the  New  Testament.  Only,  unfortunately,  they're 
quite  unworkable — and  he  will  try  to  put  them 
in  practice.  He  would  like  to  follow  the  text, 
"  Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth." 
And  yet  he  isn't  a  Christian. 

CLARA. 

Perhaps  he  tries  to  follow  it  out  for  that  very 
reason,  just  to  shame  us  ! 

LUCY. 

I  intend  to  make  him  so  comfortable  he'll  cease 
to  condemn  things.  He's  naturally  rather  fas- 


THIS   GENERATION  131 

tidious,  and  we're  only  living  in  the  way  that  he 
was  brought  up  to.  He'll  surely  find  it's  the 
right  thing — in  time. 

CLAEA. 

You  do  him  uncommonly  well,  dear.  That's 
the  secret  of  making  a  man  contented  and  soundly 
Conservative. 

(A  young  FOOTMAN  in  plush  knee-breeches 
and  silk  stockings  enters,  carrying  coals, 
and  proceeds  to  make  up  the  fire. 
CLAEA  glances  at  the  Sunday  paper  she 
holds  in  her  hand.) 

CLAEA. 

I  see  Lady  Dorothy  Clarage  was  at  the  opera 
last  night.  She  wore  her  diamonds.  It's  rather 
dull  of  the  women  always  to  wear  their  diamonds. 
Has  she  a  box? 

LUCY. 

I  think   so — Tuesdays  ! 

CLAEA. 

(Dropping  the  paper.)  When  are  we  going  to 
move? 

LUCY. 

Oh,  nothing's  fixed  !  Of  course,  I  must  discuss 
it  with  George  before  I  go  farther. 


132  THIS   GENERATION 

CLAEA. 

He  took  that  slummy  shop  without  asking  you 
first! 

LUCY. 

That's  quite  different — he's  my  husband.  I 
don't  wish  to  do  anything  without  his  approval. 

(GEOEGE,  in  morning  dress,  comes  in,  watches 
the  FOOTMAN  for  a  moment,  then  takes 
the  poker  from  him.} 

GEOEGE . 

Never  mind  !  I'll  poke  it.  (The  man  goes.) 
I  can't  bear  to  trouble  a  servant  to  poke  the  fire — 
just  as  though  we  were  cripples  ! 

CLARA. 

It's  usual  in  good  houses. 

LUCY. 

Don't  you  think,  dear,  now  Clara's  going  to 
live  with  us,  we're  getting  rather  cramped  for 
room? 

GEOEGE. 

(Standing  in  front  of  fire.}  There's  plenty 
for  me. 

LUCY. 

(Fluently.}     I  was  just  telling  Clara  about  a 


THIS   GENERATION  133 

house  I've  seen  in  Lancaster  Gate.  A  good,  large, 
corner  house,  on  gravel,  with  a  splendid  south 
aspect  over  the  Park,  and  sunshine  all  the  day. 

GEORGE . 

Do  you  want  to  move  there? 

LUCY. 

Very   much — if   you   quite   approve. 

GEORGE . 
.Why? 

LUCY. 

It's  not  healthy  here.  You  know  how  bad  the 
fogs  are.  They  say  they're  always  lighter  across 
the  Park.  It  would  be  so  much  better  for  the 
children . 

GEORGE . 

They're  not  seedy,  are  they? 

LUCY. 

No,  but  they  flag.  (Conclusively.)  Lancaster 
Gate  is  so  much  more  bracing. 

GEORGE . 

Three  men  in  the  house,  I  suppose,  instead 
of  two  I 


134  THIS  GENERATION 

LUCY. 

No  !  I  think  we  could  manage  with  two.  I 
must  talk  to  the  butler  about  it.  Besides,  moving 
would  give  us  a  chance  of  selling  some  of  this 
furniture.  I  know  you  don't  like  it. 

GEORGE. 
I  loathe  it ! 

CLARA. 

Poor  father  hadn't  much  taste. 

GEORGE . 

(Coldly.}     Is  the  house  already  taken? 

LUCY. 

Oh  no,  George,  of  course  not.  I  should  natur- 
ally ask  your  leave  first. 

GEORGE. 

Very  well.  Do  as  you  like.  If  it's  good  for 
the  children  we'd  better  go. 

(Re  drops  into  a  chair.  LUCY,  with  wifely 
solicitude,  brings  a  cushion,  puts  it 
behind  his  head,  and  then  stands  by  him 
affectionately  while  she  talks.} 

LUCY. 

Thank  you,  dear,  so  much  !     I  know  how  un- 


THIS  GENERATION  135 

selfish  you  are — and  it's  for  the  children's  sake. 
(Coaxingly.)  There's  another  thing  I  want  to 
consult  you  about.  Isn't  it  time  we  gave  up  the 
horses  and  got  a  motor? 

GEORGE. 

Aren't  you  a  little  sorry  to  give  them  up  ?  The 
nation  is  suffering  from  congested  cities.  I'm 
all  for  "  back  to  the  land."  Motors  are  awfully 
useful,  but  they've  come  on  the  world  too  fast. 
They're  spoiling  the  peaceful  country,  killing  the 
friendly  quiet  of  lane  and  village.  How  Morris 
and  Ruskin  would  have  cursed  them  ! 

LUCY. 

So  do  I — when  I'm  walking.  I  mean,  I  hate 
all  the  rush  and  dust — of  other  people's.  One's 
almost  compelled  to  have  a  motor  in  mere  self- 
defence,  though  I  don't  like  chauffeurs,  of  course. 
They're  most  extortionate,  full  of  dishonest  tricks, 
and  don't  know  their  places. 

GEORGE. 

Grooms  were  decent  lads  from  a  country  farm. 
I'm  told  the  distress  among  them  is  dreadful — so 
many  are  out  of  employment. 

LUCY. 

I  should  keep  on  the  coachman  and  have  him 
trained.  The  groom  can  still  look  after  the 
children's  ponies. 


136  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

If  we  both  think  it  would  be  pleasant  and  kind 
to  keep  on  horses,  why  not  stick  to  ours  for  the 
present?  It  gives  us  a  chance,  for  once,  of  not 
doing  an  inconsiderate  thing  because  it's  the 
fashion . 

LUCY. 

The  country  roads  are  spoilt  already,  so  it 
makes  no  difference.  We  really  must  have  a 
motor.  Every  one  has  one  nowadays,  even 
Socialist  Cabinet  Ministers. 

GEORGE . 

All  Cabinet  Ministers  are  humbugs — the  Social- 
istic ones  especially  ! 

CLARA. 

Of  course  !  Every  one's  more  or  less  of  a  hum- 
bug but  you,  George.  You'd  be  so  much  happier 
if  you  were  a  little  bit  of  one  now  and  then  ! 

GEORGE . 

(Bitterly.}  And  you  think  there's  need  to  say 
that  to  me  while  I'm  in  this  house  !  (To  LUCY.) 
But  if  you've  made  up  your  mind,  why  consult  me  ? 

LUCY. 

I  wanted  to  consult  you — whether  you  think, 
dear,  it's  best  to  have  a  Daimler  or  Humber? 


THIS   GENERATION  137 

GEORGE. 

(Moving  the  cushion  away.)     Oh  ! 

CLAEA. 

When  are  you  going  to  give  a  dinner-party? 

LUCY. 

The  end  of  next  week,  if  George  is  willing. 
(To  GEOKGE.)  Would  the  Friday  suit? 

GEOKGE . 

(Vaguely.)      I    don't   know. 

LUCY. 

I  mean,  will  you  be  at  home? 

GEORGE . 

I  don't  know. 

LUCY. 

But  we  can't  have  a  party  without  you,  George. 
I'm  sure  you  dislike  them.  I'm  sorry  ;  but  it's 
really  a  duty.  And  you  know  you  think  so  much 
of  duty. 

GEORGE. 

Very  well,  then — the  Friday. 


138  THIS  GENERATION 

LUCY. 

Shall   we   ask   the   Stephenses? 

GEOEGE. 

I  don't  care. 

LUCY. 

Or  the  Faussets? 

GEORGE. 

Ask  any  one  you  like. 

LUCY. 

(A  little  pained,  she  moves  from  him  and 
takes  a  seat.)  I  wish  you  would  express  an 
opinion,  George — one  way  or  the  other.  After  all, 
you're  the  host.  It's  your  party  as  much  as 
mine. 

CLARA. 

(As  she  moves  to  the  piano.)  My  dear,  when 
you  give  a  party,  let  the  man  choose  the  wine 
and  the  wife  choose  the  guests.  Then  every  one's 
happy.  (She  sits  down  and  plays  softly.) 

LUCY. 

You  seem  to  ;take  so  little  interest  in  any  of 
our  affairs — it  sometimes  hurts  my  feelings,  dear. 


THIS   GENERATION  139 

GEORGE. 

(Pulling  himself  together.)  I'm  sorry — I'm  ex- 
ceedingly sorry.  But  I  know  so  few  of  your 
friends . 

LUCY. 

But  I  want  you  to  know  them  better.  Only 
you  don't  seem  to  care  for  any  of  them. 

GEORGE. 

(Remorsefully.)  I  wish  I  could.  But  some- 
how I  can't — I  can't  1 

LUCY. 

(Bitterly.)  I  know  you  despise  them  because 
they're  sane,  well-to-do  people.  You  don't  try 
to  care  for  anything  I  like. 

CLARA. 

(Playing.)  Aren't  you  rather  grumpy  this 
evening. 

GEORGE . 

(Jumping  up.)     I'm  afraid  I  am. 

CLARA. 

(Stopping  suddenly.)  It's  we  who  ought  to  be 
grumpy.  What  with  the  new  fashions — which 
are  simply  hideous — and  the  price  of  everything 


140  THIS  GENERATION 

going  up   so,   we   shall  have  to   fall  back  on   the 
Simple   Life,   after   all. 

(The  BUTLER  announces  MR.  DICKINSON, 
who  immediately  enters  with  an  air  of 
friendly  cheerfulness.  He  is  not  in 
evening  dress.) 

DICKINSON. 

(Shaking  hands.)  How  do  you  do?  I've  just 
come  from  the  Elysium  Club.  I  was  passing  and 
thought  I'd  look  in.  Pray  excuse  my  costume. 
I'm  glad  George  keeps  me  in  countenance. 

LUCY. 

It's  nice  of  you  to  drop  in  like  this. 

DICKINSON. 

(To  CLARA.)  I  don't  think  I've  seen  you,  Miss 
Harburn,  since  that  night  George  gave  up  his 
cigarette  -making . 

CLARA. 

You  mustn't  chaff  him  about  his  youthful 
follies.  We  ignore  the  episode.  He's  growing 
wiser  as  he  grows  older. 

GEORGE. 

I  hope  so,  I'm  sure  !  With  such  a  smart  in- 
quisitor, I  know  I  ought  to  recant — or  go  to  the 
rack. 


THIS   GENERATION  141 

DICKINSON. 

You  mustn't  corrupt  him,  Miss  Harburn.  You 
mustn't  make  him  "  rat  "  to  the  Classes — away 
from  the  Masses. 

GEORGE. 

I  never  liked  the  distinction.  I  think  we  need 
(waving  his  hand  in  a  circle)  more  Class -circula- 
tion. 

DICKINSON. 

And  Capital -circulation  too.  There's  far  too 
much  fixed  capital  nowadays,  in  spite  of  death- 
duties  and  taxes.  (Playfully  to  CLAKA.)  And 
how  does  the  Budget  suit  you? 

CLAKA. 

It's  simply  bleeding  us  white. 

DICKINSON. 

I  don't  yet  see  any  signs  of  pallor,  I'm  glad  to 
say  !  I  think  it's  glorious.  It  leaves  me  quite 
untouched.  That's  the  best  of  being  a  pauper — 
you  can  help  on  these  great  financial  achievements 
with  entire  impartiality.  (To  GEORGE.)  When's 
the  boy  coming  back  from  school? 

GEOEGE . 

On  Tuesday. 


142  THIS   GENERATION 

DICKINSON. 

Where's  he  going  to  afterwards? 

LUCY. 
Eton. 

GEORGE. 

(On  edge.)  It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it. 
Suppose  I  object? 

LUCY. 

It  wouldn't  be  right  not  to  give  him  every 
advantage.  I  want  us  both  to  be  proud  of  our 
son. 

CLARA. 

Of  course  he's  going  to  Eton,  George  !  Father 
wished  it. 

GEORGE. 

Indeed  !  Do  you  think  that's  the  best  training 
for  the  son  of  a  Socialist? 

CLARA. 

It's  the  best  training  for  Harold.  We  hope  he'll 
choose  Diplomacy  or  the  Guards.  It  would  have 
so  gratified  his  grandfather. 

GEORGE . 

You  seem  to  forget  he's  my  son  ! 


THIS  GENERATION  143 

LUCY. 

Oh  no  !  But  father  left  so  much  money  to 
Harold,  it's  only  right  to  consider  his  wishes. 

GEOKGE. 

(Firing  up.}  So  you  think  his  grandfather's 
devilish  money  has  bought  him  body  and  soul? 
Suppose  I  refuse  to  sell  him? 

LUCY. 

(Soothingly,  calmly.}  You're  very  tired  to- 
night, dear,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that.  It 
sounds  so  unnatural  in  a  father.  I  pray  every 
night  that  Harold  may  turn  out  a  good  and  useful 
man. 

DICKINSON. 

(To  GEOKGE,  changing  the  conversation.}  You 
must  bring  him  round  to  see  me  one  day  the  end 
of  next  week. 

GEORGE. 
Delighted  ! 

LUCY. 

(Gently.}     I'm  afraid  he  won't  be  here. 

GEORGE . 

(Sharply.}      Why   not? 


144  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I've  promised  to  let  him 
stay  with  a  school  friend — a  son  of  Lord 
Malvern's. 

GEORGE. 

(Holding  himself  in  with  difficulty.)  I  think 
I  might  have  been  asked — told,  before  ! 

LUCY. 

You're  so  busy.  I  always  try  not  to  bother 
you  too  much  with  plans.  I  know  how  they  tire 
you.  The  Malverns  are  influential  people.  They 
can  help  Harold  on  in  the  future.  If  he  chooses 
the  Diplomatic  Service,  Lord  Malvern  is  just  the 
man  to  get  him  a  nomination.  (Rising.)  I'm 
going  to  hear  Millie's  prayers.  I  shan't  be  long. 

(She  goes  out.) 
CLAEA. 

Then  I'll  leave  you  two  gentlemen  to  plot  our 
utter  destruction  together . 

(She  also   goes   out.) 

(GEORGE  jumps  up  and  marches  about  the 
room  excitedly.) 

GEORGE. 

(Breaking  out  with  passion.)  I'm  frantic ! 
I'm  driven  frantic  here — like  a  wild  animal  caught 
and  caged  !  It  isn't  Lucy.  .  .  .  She's  as  nice 


THIS  GENERATION  145 

as  can  be.  It's  class — it's  wealth — it's  social 
decorum — it's  life  itself  !  A  kind  of  impalpable 
cage  of  convention  which  breaks  my  heart.  Look 
at  this  house — the  butler — the  simple  youth  who 
let  you  in  !  He  doesn't  even  know  that  indoor 
service  and  livery  are  degrading.  The  very  atmo- 
sphere here  kills  all  manhood.  (After  a  moment.) 
Lucy  and  I  love  each  other  as  much  as  ever.  And 
yet  we've  hardly  a  thought  in  common.  It's  all 
the  Money  !  I  keep  silent — I  must.  But  it  makes 
my  position  utterly  false.  My  son  at  Eton — you 
heard  her — the  Guards  or  Diplomacy  !  And  I 
believe  in  disarmament  and  universal  peace. 
Ridiculous — isn't  it  !  He'll  have  Money  !  She 
spoils  the  children.  They're  being  ruined  for 
life.  And  I  can  do  nothing.  (He  suddenly  turns 
to  DICKINSON.)  You  can't  fight  society,  Dickey 
— not  if  you've  got  a  wife  and  children  safe  in 
the  fold.  It  can't  be  done  ! 

DICKINSON. 

Not  by  example  and  influence?  Influence  is  a 
wonderful  power. 

GEORGE. 

I  thought  so  once.  It's  impossible  here.  You 
might  as  well  try  to  influence  the  Bank  of  England 
to  open  and  fall  down  before  you. 

DICKINSON. 

Can't  you  let  off  your  steam  outside  ? 
10 


146  THIS   GENERATION 

GEOEGE. 

Am  I  not  always  doing  it?  Though  I  can  see 
our  people  think  me  a  hypocrite.  For  now  I'm 
supposed  to  have  Money.  "  It's  all  very  well," 
they  say  to  each  other,  "  for  him  to  jaw  about  the 
evils  of  wealth.  Why,  he  lives  in  a  house  worth 
three  hundred  a  year,  with  five  horses  and  three 
men  in  livery." 

DICKINSON. 

I  see,  the  plush  and  silk  stockings  rankle.  I 
don't  think  I  mind  them  myself — rather  decora- 
tive. The  last  touch  of  colour  from  the  Middle 
Ages. 

GEORGE. 

I  don't  care,  of  course,  what  our  people  say. 
It's  because  I  give  them  cause,  I'm  sickened. 
For  indirectly  I  am  living  on  plunder — her 
father's  loot.  I,  shall  have  to  drop  taking  an 
active  part  in  the  Movement.  I  see  it  !  I  do  more 
harm  than  good.  II  shall  have  to  pass  on  The 
Torch  to  some  other  hand.  I  never  realized  the 
immense  power  of  Capital  till  I  married  a 
financier's  daughter.  I've  fought  it — I've  fought 
it,  Dicky,  and  it's  defeating  me  at  last ! 

DICKINSON. 

I  can  see  you're  wriggling  a  bit.     Take  care  ! 

GEOEGE. 

Doesn't  a  worm  wriggle  on  the  hook? 

\ 


THIS  GENERATION  147 

DICKINSON. 

(Soothingly.)  Come  and  stay  with  me  for  a 
few  days,  old  chap  !  A  change  will  do  you  good. 
It  will  give  you  a  chance  of  cooling  down. 

GEOKGE. 

I  should  like  to  come.  I  need  a  rest — and  time 
to  think  things  over.  But  I  daren't.  I  might 
find  it  too  difficult  to  return. 

DICKINSON. 

(Airily.)  Why  come  back  at  all  if  the  life 
here  chokes  you? 

GEORGE . 

(Very  earnestly.)  Oh,  I  must — I  must — for 
Lucy's  sake  and  the  children's  !  How  could  I 
leave  them?  Besides,  if  I  did,  I  should  leave 
my  heart  behind  me.  You  know  Henley's  lines — 

' '  I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
The  captain  of  my  soul." 

It's  not  true — at  least  not  of  me  !  I'm  a  captive 
here,  bound  by  a  hundred  invisible  threads,  and 
smothered  by  pomp  and  circumstance. 

DICKINSON. 

(With  light  mockery.)  Burst  them,  then — burst 
them  1  Ours  is  an  age  of  revolt.  The  women 


148  THIS   GENERATION 

are  in  the  vanguard  there.  Nothing  must  stand 
in  the  way  of  their  ego — self-effectuation,  I  think 
they  call  it.  It's  time  men  followed  their  lead 
and  jumped  some  fences.  You  should  just  see 
the  condition  of  poor  white  men -slaves  in 
America  !  You  should  hear  the  crack  of  the  ladies' 
whips  !  That  would  teach  you  the  sacred  duty  of 
timely  revolt  ! 

GEORGE . 

(Calm  again.)  What  nonsense  you  talk, 
Dickey  !  If  I  escaped,  I  should  still  find  the 
great  world  a  cage  of  gold.  I've  always  done  so. 
I  suppose  I  was  born  too  soon  in  a  world  too 
young.  (Almost  cheerfully.)  But  I'd  like  to 
come  to  you  for  a  day  or  two — there  ! 

(Re  rings  the  bell  and  drops  into  a  chair.) 

DICKINSON. 

Eight  you   are!      To-night? 

GEORGE. 

Yes. 

DICKINSON. 

(Playfully.)  Let's  slip  off  quietly  now,  at 
once,  with  no  last  words  to  anybody  ! 

GEORGE. 

No,  no  !  I  must  have  my  things  packed  and 
say  goodbye  to  Lucy.  (With  a  change  of  voice.) 


THIS  GENERATION  149 

Baxter  used  to  declare  I  lacked  all  sense  of  com- 
promise. He  wouldn't  say  so  (looking  round) 
if  he  could  see  me  now. 

(The  BUTLER  enters.) 

GEORGE . 

Pack   my   bag   for   a   couple   of  nights,   please. 

BUTLER. 

(With  a  tone  of  solemn  reprehension.)  I'll 
tell  Henry  to  pack  it,  sir. 

GEORGE. 

Get  it  packed  between  you. 

(The  BUTLER  goes.) 
DICKINSON. 

Civilization  has  got  us  into  such  a  hideous 
mess — it  will  have  to  begin  at  the  very  beginning, 
and  do  its  work  over  again. 

GEORGE. 

Can  we  be  sure  it  will  do  it  better,  after  we've 
had  our  way,  and  pulled  everything  down  for 
reconstruction  ? 

DICKINSON. 

It  must  put  a  better  face  on  things  and 
people.  It  seems  to  me,  George,  the  domestic 
influence  here  is  working — reversely  ! 


150  THIS   GENERATION 

GEORGE. 

Not  at  all.  But  there's  one  mistake  I've  always 
made,  and  I  think  we  Socialists  make  it. 
(Emphatically.)  We  don't  sufficiently  count  the 
cost. 

DICKINSON. 

Why,  that's  our  salvation  !  Nothing's  ever  done 
if  you  count  the  cost.  I'll  tell  you  where  we 
may  suffer  after  we've  finished  the  job — life  may 
not  be  quite  so  amusing  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Caustically.)  It  will  doubtless  still  give 
plenty  of  opportunities  for  the  ironic  smile  ! 
(Rising.)  Come  down  to  my  room.  You  can 
smoke  while  I  say  good -night  to  Lucy. 

(They  go  out.) 
GEORGE'S  VOICE. 

(On  the  stairs.)     I'll  be  up  in  a  moment. 

DICKINSON'S  VOICE. 

Good -night,  Mrs.  Tremayne  ! 

LUCY'S  VOICE. 
Good -night. 

(She  comes  in  and  stands  restlessly  near  the 
-fire.  After  a  few  seconds  GEORGE  joins 
her.) 


THIS   GENERATION  151 

LUCY. 

(Catching     her     breath     with     apprehension.} 
Henry's  in  your  dressing-room  packing  your  bag  ! 

GEORGE. 

I'm  going  to  Dickinson's  for  a  day  or  two. 

LUCY. 

(Terrified.}     You're  going  to  leave  us — you'll 
never  come  back  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Soothingly.}     Oh  yes,  I  shall,  dear — don't  be 
alarmed  ! 

LUCY. 

Why  are  you  going? 

GEORGE . 

I  want  a  little  time  to  myself  to  think  things 
over.     Will   you   really   miss   me? 

LUCY. 

(Passionately.}     Oh,  George,  it's  unkind  to  say 
that  !     You're  all  in  all  to  me  ! 

GEORGE . 

Sometimes  I  seem  to  be  only  a  cipher  here. 

LUCY. 

You  know  it's  your  own  doing  if  you  are  !     I 
want  you  to  feel  yourself  master.     Everything's 


152  THIS   GENERATION 

yours  that's  mine — if  you'd  only  believe  it,  and 
hold  the  reins.  It  would  make  me  much  happier 
if  you'd  take  over  my  banking  account — or  share 
it. 

GEORGE . 

(Eather  sadly.)  Ah,  Lucy,  you  treat  me  too 
well.  I  feel  like  a  speck  of  grit  that's  got  into 
the  well-oiled  machine  of  society. 

LUCY. 

I  don't  understand  !  I'm  afraid  you're  not 
happy,  dear.  I  would  do  anything  I  could  to 
please  you — only  tell  me  what  !  Would  it  make 
you  happier  if  we  tried  to  live  in  a  simpler  way 
and  only  kept  one  man  indoors  instead  of  two  ? 

GEORGE. 

No,  not  particularly. 

LUCY. 

If  you  think  it's  more  democratic  we'll  live  in  a 
flat  instead  of  a  house.  And  I'll  give  up  all  idea 
of  a  motor  and  stick  to  the  horses.  I  know  you 
make  sacrifices  for  me.  I  want  to  make  them 
for  you. 

GEORGE. 

(Touched.)  Don't,  dear,  don't  !  It's  like 
your  sweet  self  to  propose  it,  but  it  would  be 
worse  that  useless.  I'm  very  exacting — I  want  so 
much  !  You  would  never  understand  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  153 

LUCY. 

(Alarmed.)  Not  back  to  a  little  shop,  George  ! 
I  couldn't  bear  that  again  ! 

GEORGE . 

No,  dear  !  There  are  some  follies  one  does 
outgrow.  The  leap  was  too  sudden — too  big ! 
I  deserved  a  fall. 

LUCY. 

If  you'll  tell  me  anything  you  would  like 
changed,  I'll  try  to  arrange  it. 

GEORGE. 

(Recklessly.)     Everything ! 

LUCY. 

But,  George,  you  can't  change  everything  in 
the  world — at  once  ! 

GEORGE . 

I'm  beginning  to  find  that  out.  (With  sudden 
decision.)  There  are  two  things  I  wish  if  I  stay 
on  here — and  I  must  insist  on  !  I  wish  to  have 
Harold  with  us  in  the  holidays.  The  visit  must 
be  cancelled  ! 

LUCY. 

He'll  be  very  disappointed.  But  I  can  take 
him  to  Cromer  instead — he  needs  sea  air. 


154  THIS    GENERATION 

GEOEGE. 

(Presenting  his  ultimatum.)  And  I  wish  to 
live  in  the  country — not  Lancaster  Gate  ! 

LUCY. 

(Accepting  it  with  delight.)  I'm  so  glad  !  I 
never  dared  to  suggest  it.  The  children  will 
simply  love  it.  We'll  look  out  for  a  nice  large 
place  with  plenty  of  land  and  shooting. 

GEORGE. 

Shooting  ! 

LUCY. 

Harold  will  want  to  hunt  and  shoot. 

GEORGE. 

Will  he?     I  hope  not! 

LUCY. 

Of  course  he  will,  George  !  We  should 
encourage  him  to  go  in  for  sport.  Every  one 
knows  it's  the  hest  thing  for  health  and  character. 

GEORGE. 

(With  a  flash  of  scorching  irony.)  So  at  last  I 
shall  be  a  landlord — a  game  preserving  landlord  ! 
A  landlord — and  I  used  to  talk  about  taxing 
them  out  of  existence  ! 


THIS   GENERATION  155 

LUCY. 

We  shall   be   county  people. 

(He  feels  that  the  loved  hands  of  wife  and 
children  are  closing  the  golden  doors  of 
the  prison  house  on  him.) 

GEORGE. 

(With  the  resignation  of  despair.)  Oh,  Lucy, 
Lucy — you're  like  the  Bourbons  who  never  forgot, 
and  never  learnt,  anything ! 

LUCY. 

I  know  you  think  me  stupid.  But  at  any  rate, 
George,  I've  got  the  common  sense.  Pity  me, 
if  I  can't  live  up  to  your  ideals.  But  love  me 
— love  me  all  the  same  ! 

GEOEGE . 

Always,  always 

LUCY. 

(Very  sweetly.)  You  won't  go  to-night,  dear, 
will  you? 

GEORGE. 

You  would  like  me  to   stay? 

LUCY. 

(Coaxing.)      Please — please — George  !      Please  ! 

(He  knows  the  door  is  shut  for  ever.) 


156  THIS   GENERATION 

GEOEGE. 

Yes,  dear  ;    I'll  stay  ! 

(She  looks  at  the  clock  and  rings  the  bell.} 

After  all,  what's  the  good  of  going?     I  can  medi- 
tate on  repentance  here,  as  well  as  at  Dickinson's. 

LUCY. 

(Taken  a  little  aback.}     Repent — of  what? 

GEORGE . 

(In  the  saddest  voice.}  I  hardly  know.  Per- 
haps that  the  little  speck  of  grit  ever  got  itself  into 
the  well-oiled  machine.  Never  mind  !  The 
machine  needn't  creak  or  clog.  The  speck  will 
be  soon  ground  to  powder. 

(The  FOOTMAN  enters.} 

LUCY. 

(Composedly.}     We're  ready  for  prayers. 

(The  FOOTMAN  places  the  family  Bible  on 
a  small  table.) 

(LUCY  seats  herself  deliberately  and  begins 
to   find    the   place.) 

GEORGE . 
Prayers  ? 


THIS   GENERATION  157 

LUCY. 

(Reproachfully.}  Oh,  George,  you've  forgotten 
it's  Sunday  ! 

GEORGE. 

(Hastily.)  I'll  run  down  and  say  good -night  to 
Dickey  1 

LUCY. 

(With  conclusive  calmness.)  He  can  very  well 
wait  till  prayers  are  over.  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't 
care  to  join  us? 

GEORGE. 

No,  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  ! 

(The  FOOTMAN   is   arranging  six   chairs   in 
a  row  near  the  door.) 

(GEORGE  drops  into  a  chair  that  stands  near 
him — a  small  one.) 

GEORGE . 

(Wearily.)  I'm  tired  of  struggling — I'm  tired 
of  everything  ! 

LUCY. 

(Looking  up  sympathetically.)  I  know  you're 
tired  to-night,  dear  !  That  looks  a  very  uncom- 
fortable chair.  Do  take  another. 

GEORGE . 

It's  all  right.     Please  don't  bother. 


158  THIS   GENERATION 

LUCY. 

(With  all  a  wife's  loving  triumph.}  I  mean 
to  make  you  so  snug  and  happy  at  home.  I'm 
going  to  spoil  you  in  future. 

GEORGE. 

(With  a  very  watery  smile.)  Ah,  Lucy  !  If 
you  knew  how  little  I  deserve  it ! 

(The  door  is  opened  by  the  BUTLER.) 
Sometimes  I  fancy  that  after  all   ... 

LUCY. 

(Finger  on  lip.)     Hush  !    the  servants  1 


END  OF  THE  PLAY. 


UNWIN  BROTHERS,  LIMITED, 
WOXING  AND  LONDON. 


A    000  047  388     4 


